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0n tl)c Cake of £u rente 


AND OTHER STORIES 


BY 

BEATRICE WHITBY 

AUTHOR OF THE AWAKENING OF MARY FENWICK, 
PART OF THE PROPERTY, ETC. 




NEW YORK 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 

1891 




? 


V 


Copyright, 1891, 

By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 



The publication of this small collection of 
tales gives me an opportunity of thanking my 
American readers for the cordiality with which 
they have received my former books — The 
Awakening of Mary Fenwick and Part of the 
Property — an opportunity of which I am glad 
to avail myself. 

To me it has been delightful to learn that 
my stories have been welcomed by my indul- 
gent kinsfolk across the water; it has given 
me acute happiness to find that my inexpe- 
rienced pen is capable of providing enjoyment 
(enjoyment of a description however meagre) 


4 


^tUlior’s $ot e. 


in a world where pleasure is not always of 
prolific growth. 

To those unknown friends who have tend- 
ered me this knowledge I offer my warmest 
thanks and subscribe myself, 


Theirs very truly, 


Beatrice Whitby. 


July 2, 1891. 


ts, 






CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

On the Lake of Lucerne .... 7 

Fenella. — A True Story .... 44 

What happened at Ridgeway-on-Sea . 83 

A True Story 118 

“ Violets, Dim ” 149 

“Poor Dear Mamma” . . . .178 

* 






ON THE LAKE OF LUCERNE. 


CHAPTER I. 

“For that which makes our lives delightful prove 
Is a genteel sufficiency and love.” — Pomfret. 

She was romantic. Though perhaps this 
was not on the whole a very grave fault, yet it 
was a downright misfortune in Miss Danger- 
field's case, to whom a good settlement in 
life was a positive necessity. She had been 
launched by a rich uncle and aunt into those 
special spheres of society in which a matrimo- 
nial sequence to maidenhood was to be looked 
for with, if not a certain, at least a hopeful ex- 
pectation. 

She was an orphan, sparsely dowered, it was 
true, but her pedigree, like her beauty, was un- 
impeachable. 


8 


(Bn tl)e £ake of Cnccrne. 


From her German mother she had inherited, 
along with calm, blue eyes, a fair, sweet face 
and a gentle stateliness of demeanor, a Teu- 
tonic Schwarmerie. This romantic disposition 
handicapped her matrimonial chances ; it had 
hitherto prevented her from looking with a fa- 
vorable eye upon any of those English gentle- 
men who had singled her out for their particu- 
lar and marked admiration, and either one of 
whom might, had she chosen to play her cards 
well, have blossomed into a comfortable hus- 
band. But she neither understood nor cared to 
understand the game. She was a social failure. 

Miss Dangerfield was four-and-twenty years 
old; time was passing. Her aunt was getting 
anxious — openly and zealously anxious— about 
her sad case. Mrs. Dangerfield’s girls— her 
four girls— had married, and had been eager to 
marry, but Gertrude — Gertrude alone — was in- 
different to the hideousness of her impending 
fate, and continued to overlook with far-away, 
unconcerned eyes, her one remaining suitor. 

Mrs. Dangerfield flattered herself, as most 
women flatter themselves, that she “ understood 
men.” She foresaw that this infatuated lover 


CDn tl)e £ake of interne. 


9 


would soon tire of this unresponsive damsel, and 
would be lost forever, while Gertrude — poor, 
foolish Gertrude — would be left to her dreams, 
the “wrinkles’ fretful tooth,” and a poverty- 
stricken spinsterhood. Colonel and Mrs. Dan- 
gerfield had sons and daughters in plenty ; they 
could, in justice to their own children, make no 
provision for their niece. It was shocking to 
see Miss Dangerfield squandering her few short 
years of youth. 

“ Marry first, my dear girl ; there will be 
plenty of time for reading tra — ahem ! poetry, 
and writing verses, afterward. Mr. Douglas is 
— he really is — a most charming person.” 

“ Dear Aunt Augusta, you are so kind ; you 
find ‘all young men are charming,” responded 
Gertrude, gravely. “ He is nice ; I do not find 
him * charming ’ ; his interests are not mine ; 
he does not feel , he only sees.” 

Mrs. Dangerfield tapped her foot sharply on 
the parquet floor. 

“ He will both see and feel that. he is making 
a fool of himself, Gertrude, and he will leave 
us.” 

Miss Dangerfield smiled serenely. 


C 


IO 


©u tl)e £ake of £itccrtte. 


“ I shall not regret him much,” she said ; 
“ he makes me tired — often. He goes to Eng- 
land to-morrow.” 

“ There ! I knew it. You make him tired, 
poor fellow ; I don’t wonder at it, I am sure — 
I don’t wonder at it.” 

“ He will come back, Aunt Augusta ; he al- 
ways comes back.” 

“ The word ‘ always * is not to be found in a 
man’s dictionary, Gertrude.” 

“ ‘ Always ’ is a tiresome word, auntie.” 

“ It is, Gertrude. I apply it to you ; you are 
always blind to your own interests, and always 
will be. Good-night.” 

Then Mrs. Dangerfield, much incensed, left 
her niece’s bedroom. 

This sort of interview was not particularly 
favorable to Mr. Douglas’s success — Mr. Lau- 
rence Douglas who had, for more months than 
he cared to remember, persistently wooed Miss 
Dangerfield. This Scotch gentleman possessed 
a doggedness and tenacity of purpose, for which 
those who looked at his nondescript, freckled 
face, and heard the drawling tones of his con- 
ventional remarks, would not have given him 


©tt il)£ £ake of Cucerne. 


IX 


credit. He was a rich man — in all respects a 
“ capital match ” — and if Gertrude was indiffer- 
ent to his suit, both Colonel and Mrs. Danger- 
field abetted and encouraged it with great 
warmth and friendliness. 

Throughout the season Mr. Douglas had 
hovered round the obdurate young lady ; he 
had followed her to Homburg. When the great 
comet H. R. H. returned westward, the Dan- 
gerfields, tearing themselves asunder from the 
mass, proceeded to Switzerland ; and Mr. 
Douglas, although he hated foreign life most 
cordially, decided that he, too, had intended to 
go there. He would run home for the Leger ; 
he was sure she would miss him. At any rate, 
he spoke English, that was in his favor. She 
would welcome him on his return ; it would be 
worth while to be away from her for a year to 
receive her welcome. 

His welcome was in this wise. One evening 
it happened that Gertrude was leaning o(it of 
her window at Lucerne and looking upon the 
lake, the lovely vales and melting hills, the glori- 
ous snow-capped mountains, with eyes wet with 
tears and an ache (which she would have called 


12 


©n il)£ take of Cneerne. 


Weltschmertz) at her heart, because of the un- 
attainable beauty and majesty before her. 

She could not feed her sight thus indefi- 
nitely ; the strained sense rebelled, and she 
looked down to the earth beneath her. There 
her eyes fell on a familiar sandy head, a familiar 
thickset figure, a familiar pipe protruding from 
under a familiar red mustache, and she became 
aware that Laurence Douglas was smoking on 
the terrace of the hotel, staring at his boots and 
apparently immovable. 

The descent from the Alps to Mr. Douglas 
was beyond the capacity of Gertrude’s mount- 
aineering mind ; she lifted her eyes again to the 
peaks of Pilatus, and the current of her 
thoughts ran on undisturbed ; with her inner 
consciousness this young man had nothing to 
do. Without a second glance at him she pres- 
ently turned from the window and proceeded to 
dress for dinner. 

The Dangerfields dined at table d'hote , and 
when the clattering and interminable summons 
sounded for that function Gertrude remembered 
Mr. Douglas. He had come — he always came. 
She should find his chair next hers ; to him she 


©n tt )c £ake of £uccnte. 13 


must talk, at him she must look — she knew 
every freckle on his ugly face ; there were the 
permanent freckles that never faded, and those 
others which the sun occasionally warmed into 
life. She tried to make conversation to suit 
him, and she yawned twice — prophetic yawns 
which need not be concealed, and were a luxury. 

On reaching the dining-room she found Mr. 
Douglas, as she had foreseen. She took the 
chair next his and smiled politely at him. 

“ I saw you from my window,” she said ; 
“ when did you come ? ” 

“ Only just now. Niceish place, isn’t it ? ” 
She inclined her head affirmatively ; she re- 
ally thought the word “ niceish,” as applied to 
Pilatus, sacrilegious. 

“Glad you like it. It strikes me as a bit 
stuffy. All these hills seem to get on one’s 
head and sit there. Have you seen the menu ? 
I’m frightfully hungry. Poulet and rosbzf , of 
course.” 

“ Niceish 4 ‘ stuffy ' “ hungry.” Poor Mr. 

Douglas ! 

“ Uncle John, will you give me the menu ? ” 
Colonel Dangerfield did so. He was ready 


i4 ®n tl)£ Cake of Cacerue. 


that night to be content with any menu, for 
he had found an acquaintance — an acquaintance 
in a foreign hotel seemed to him a veritable 
godsend ; he did not wish any one to share his 
advantage. Next to him a man — a handsome, 
striking-looking man, whom Gertrude had never 
before seen — was seated, and by him Colonel 
Dangerfield’s whole attention was absorbed. 
Gertrude looked at this stranger more than once 
to assure herself that she had never seen him ; 
she wondered who he was ; she liked his face : 
she called it powerful ; it interested her. 

“ Do you know who he is ? ” she asked Mr. 
Douglas confidentially. 

“He’s a German. Your uncle met him at 
the Setons’ last year; he speaks uncommonly 
good English. He’s a funny sort of chap.” 

“Funny ! ” she said sadly — a facetious man 
was to her mind the most wearisome type of 
biped. “ He doesn’t look funny.” 

“ I don’t mean amusing, don’t you knoflr. I 
mean eccentric.” 

She looked again at this eccentric German. 
He wore his hair — which was a little long, 
and consequently contrasted favorably with the 


®n il)e £ake of Cucerne. 


15 


close-cut, sandy head hard by, brushed back in 
a heavy sweep from his forehead — a forehead 
which was deeply lined with thought ; his dark 
eyes were deeply set and melancholy. His 
mouth was most expressive : the lips were 
sternly molded, but broke every now and then 
into a curve of amusement which never widened 
into a smile. If this man was eccentric, then 
Miss Dangerfield admired eccentricity. 

“ Is he going to stay here long ? ” she in- 
quired. 

“ I don’t know,” shortly, “ shall I ask him ? ” 

Gertrude raised her delicate brows. 

* “I hope he will stay,” she said. “ Uncle 
John doesn’t like scenery, he likes conversation ; 
if he finds some one to talk to, he will be 
happy.” 

“ So shall I,” said Mr. Douglas ; even his 
light lashes didn’t quite spoil the eloquence of 
his glance, but Gertrude was looking another 
way and lost it. 

Mr§. Dangerfield assisted her husband in 
monopolizing the German. She possessed great 
powers of conversation, which, having been 
held somewhat in restraint of late in diffidence 


16 ®n tl)e Cake of £itcerne. 


to a foreign tongue, now burst forth with re- 
newed strength upon this good-looking man 
who spoke excellent English and seemed 
pleased to listen to all and anything that was 
said to him. 

Gertrude seldom speculated about her neigh- 
bors — modern flesh and blood were common- 
place and uninteresting — but now she made up 
her mind that that inscrutable face belonged to 
no ordinary person. He was a prince, a poet, a 
great statesman, a patriot, a very distinguished 
someone who traveled incognito, but whose su- 
periority to his fellows could not be altogether 
disguised. 

As Soon as dinner was over, the Danger- 
fields and Mr. Douglas seated themselves upon 
the terrace to listen to the band ; then it was 
that Gertrude, forgetting her surmises, discov- 
ered this unknown gentleman’s identity. 

“ Count Engelbert wishes to know you, my 
dear,” her uncle said, “ indeed he has every 
right to make your acquaintance, for he tells me 
that he is, in some remote way, a connection of 
your own.” 

Then Count Engelbert drew his chair close 


(Du t ! )c take of Cttcerne. 17 


to Miss Dangerfield’s, and there, to the chagrin 
of the rest of the party, he continued during the 
entire evening. He told Gertrude that he had 
seen her at Homburg, and, on inquiring her 
name, had discovered that he had the felicity of 
being her cousin. 

“ Your mother and mine were related,” he 
said, “ they were both Heriberts of Drachen- 
burg, though of different branches of that fam- 
ily. Your face reminded me of one whom I 
know, and then — it was wonderful — I found 
there was indeed a link between us.” 

The link seemed likely to be riveted, so 
much and so pleasantly did these two newly- 
found cousins talk together; Count Engelbert 
was a good listener, he encouraged his compan- 
ions — whoever they might be — to talk and to 
talk confidentially. He was at once self-con- 
tained and sympathetic. When Gertrude re- 
called that evening, she found that he had said 
very little — though he had looked a great deal. 
What he had said, he had said well , she re- 
membered not his words only, but the tone of 
his voice. 

“ I am fond of music,” he had allowed in 


2 


18 (Sht ilje take of tncexne. 


answer to her question, “ but I am not educated 
up to that pitch which can find pleasure in 
nothing but a perfect rendering of the musical 
classics of the present age. Ah, you nod your 
head, you agree with me, you are no musical 
blue-stocking. I felt that, or I would have been 
more careful what I said. You go to the cathe- 
dral music up yonder ? ” 

“ Each evening I have been there.” 

“Ah ! I knew you would go.” 

There was the faintest emphasis on “ you.” 
Gertrude smiled, a faint, pleased smile. 

“ You went — alone ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

He rested his melancholy eyes on her face. 
Overhead a great ball of electric light was 
shaded by palms and tree-ferns, so that the 
modern quencher of illusion did not wrest all 
romance from the moonlight night on the Lake 
of Lucerne. 

“ It is far best alone — unless — ” he sighed. 

“ Unless — what ? ” She wanted to hear his 
sequel to “ unless.” 

“You know — if you did not know, /could 
not tell you.” 


(Dtt tl)e Cake of Cuccrttc. 19 


At this moment, Mr. Douglas got up from 
his chair and went indoors. Colonel Danger- 
field was asleep and snoring softly, and Mrs. 
Dangerfield pretended to be absorbed in the 
music, while in reality she watched her neigh- 
bors and nursed her wrath. 

The evening passed with incredible speed. 
When the band ceased playing Gertrude was 
surprised to find that two hours had gone, and 
said so. She rose, with reluctance, to follow 
her aunt indoors. Mrs. Dangerfield was out of 
temper, and did not conceal it. 

“ Your uncle met that affected young man 
at the Setons’,” she said, staring at Gertrude 
through her eyeglass. “ Mary Seton always fills 
her house with oddities. I am sorry we have 
come across him, I am sorry John spoke to him. 
I hate foreigners. Where is that charming Mr. 
Douglas ? ” 

Gertrude looked round the lift as if she ex- 
pected to find him there. 

“ He must have gone away — he went away,” 
absently. 

“ Went away ! ” sharply, “ of course he went 
away. He is an English — I mean a Scotch- 


20 


©n tl)£ take of tncexne. 


man ; he has perception ; he will soon be tired 
of the rdle he has to play, and then you will 
be—” 

“Still at Lucerne, Aunt Augusta.” 

“ Still in the moon, and by yourself, Gert- 
rude.” 

This was severe. 

“ By myself, auntie ? You are unkind ! ” 

Then a sudden light shone in and transfig- 
ured those grave, blue eyes. To be in the 
moon — but not alone — that was the prospect, 
the conception of which changed the expression 
of Miss Dangerfield’s face. Hitherto she had 
spent the greater part of her time in that globe 
of green cheese unaccompanied, and she had 
been, when she came to think of it, a little 
lonely. 


CHAPTER II. 

“ Robs me of that which not enriches him, 

And makes me poor indeed.” 

Count Engelbert, among many charm- 
ing accomplishments, played a good game at 
picquet, and therefore it was that Colonel Dan- 


(Dn tljc £ake of tnccxne. 


21 


gerfield turned a deaf ear to his wife’s remon- 
strances and cultivated the young man’s ac- 
quaintance — a German who played scientific 
picquet was a German to be encouraged. 

It was only after the ladies had gone to bed 
that the Colonel found Count Englebert at lib- 
erty to take part in those seductive games ; as 
long as Gertrude was to be found, Count En- 
gelbert sat, figuratively speaking, at her feet, 
and she, again speaking figuratively, swept away 
her skirts somewhat eagerly to make room for 
him in that position. 

Gertrude was transformed; she was no 
longer pale and listless, but the onlookers were 
aware that it was not the mountain air which 
tinged her cheeks so warmly, which fired her 
eyes, and which set the smiling curves dimpling 
her lips. She was not a demonstrative woman, 
but she was transparent as a child. Her time 
had come— the inevitable time of which she had 
often dreamed — it came with great strength, 
it was all the more powerful because it came 
late. 

She did not put her feelings into thought, 
much less into words, she did not weaken their 


22 


(Dn i!)e Cake of lucerne. 


might by allowing them to ooze off in dribbling 
gushes of confidential conversation ; for once in 
her life she forbore to analyze. She was per- 
fectly and unreasonably happy, she did not look 
ahead, she was content, content with the eter- 
nal hills before her radiant eyes, and that eter- 
nal companion beside her who spoke so little 
and who looked so much, but who read her 
mind like a book, and when he did speak, 
clothed most noble thoughts in delicate and ap- 
propriate language. 

It was all very beautiful and it had lasted a 
fortnight, which was a good average duration 
for that particular form of bliss — such ephem- 
eral bliss as has no practical stamina to sustain 
it. Gertrude loved it for its very vagueness — 
but Mrs. Dangerfield did not. To her tutored 
chaperon-mind any husband was better than no 
husband, and the preliminaries of a match were 
a trial which had to be borne unflinchingly in 
the great and righteous cause of matrimony; 
but Count Engelbert’s way of wooing was of all 
ways the most wearisome, and Mrs. Danger- 
field did not refrain from expressing her candid 
opinion on this subject to her niece. 


(Du t!)e Cake of Cttcertte. 


2 3 


“ My dear,” she said, entering Gertrude’s 
room suddenly one Monday morning with a ma- 
jestic and important air, “ My dear, Mr. Douglas 
leaves the hotel to-day. Upon my word, I won- 
der he has had patience to stay so long ! He is 
going home. He has written me a most charm- 
ing letter ; he is a man after my own heart, a 
downright, frank, understandable person. What 
extraordinary taste yours is, Gertrude ! You 
puzzle me more and more.” 

Mrs. Dangerfield’s words burst out as 
though they had been long clamoring for free- 
dom. Gertrude was brushing her beautiful 
hair ; it was shining like gold in the morning 
sunshine ; it had fallen half over her face, but 
she tossed it back and turned to the intruder. 

“ I can’t think how I can puzzle any one, 
Aunt Augusta.” 

“ Now, don’t argue, Gertrude ; if you can 
prefer the society of a melancholy young man, 
eaten up with egotism and conceit, who talks 
like a dull book when he does talk, and w r ho 
looks like Manfred, or Egmont, or William Tell, 
or any tiresome, highly strung, depressing per- 
son, and who will make the most uncomfortable 


24 ©u tl )t £ake of Cttcernc. 


husband, to Laurence Douglas, you would puz- 
zle Solomon, and so I tell you.” 

Gertrude’s hair had fallen again from the 
brush and veiled her face ; she did not answer. 
She had a sweet and patient temper, but she 
had to bite her lip to keep silence ; her aunt’s 
candor seemed an outrage to her maidenliness, 
but nothing was sacred to that matron. 

“Yes. Laurence Douglas is choked off at 
last,” the elder lady pursued grimly : “ you will 
never see him again, and when it is too late you 
will regret it. But, of course, you will go your 
own way — you must be unhappy your own way, 
as I used to tell my girls. I do not care for 
foreigners.” 

“My mother—” began Miss Dangerfield 
gently. 

“ To be sure,” said her aunt, with a sudden 
sigh, as of relief, “ your poor mother would ac- 
count for any — any oddity ; of course, my dear, 
we must not expect too much of you ; you are 
not a genuine English woman — you are not like 
my daughters.” This conclusion seemed to 
comfort Mrs. Dangerfield ; she kissed her niece 
and changed the subject. 


©tt the Cake of Cncerite. 25 


“ It is such a lovely day, Gertrude, we will 
cruise round the lake this morning. You and 
Count Engelbert are never happy away from 
your mountains, and I feel as though the 
day is wasted when I have not been upon 
the water. Dear me, I shall miss poor 
Mr. Douglas, for of late he has been my 
companion.” 

But, as it turned out, Mrs. Dangerfield was 
not called upon to deplore the absence of 
this young man. He was not leaving Lu- 
cerne until the evening, and he, with that 
instinct peculiar to the moth (and the lover), 
continued to singe his wings so long as he 
could by any chance approach the fatal lu- 
minary, and joined the Dangerfield party on 
the steamer. 

“ Traveling by night-train to Paris,” he ex- 
plained, in answer to Gertrude’s question. “ Oh, 
yes, I’m going right enough, but while I am here 
I may as well see a little more of you and of 
Switzerland. I’m afraid I’ve done most of the 
mountains by diorama and panorama ; less ex- 
ertion, you know, but unorthodox.” 

Gertrude said politely that she was very glad 


26 ©n tlje Cake of Cuter ne. 

he was coming, too, and then she wandered off 
to the bows of the boat and stood there with 
Count Engelbert beside her. The steamer cut 
her way through the brilliant waters of the lake, 
leaving a trail of rippling wavelets in her wake, 
passing beneath such frowning heights, such 
verdant hills, such smiling vales, as beggar de- 
scription. Gertrude was awed — silent, and very 
still. 

“To get away from the people, from the 
traffic, from the world, to sail alone across these 
waters,” murmured Count Englebert, “ then one 
would taste the whole beauty, the great wonder 
of it all.” 

“ Alone ! ” repeated Miss Dangerfield ; a 
cloud veiled the heights of the Rigi, and she 
lowered her eyes to her companion. “ Alone,” 
sounded just then a peculiarly unprepossessing 
word. She thought vaguely that he would ex- 
plain that he meant solitude & deux, but he did 
not do so; his gloomy eyes were fixed upon 
Pilatus. Pilatus was Miss Dangerfield ’s favorite 
mountain; she had told Count Engelbert so, 
but nevertheless she thought he might overdo 
his absorption in its beauties. 


0u tl)e Cake of jLiuertte. 27 


“ There is a rapture on the lonely shore — 

I love not man the less, but Nature more.” 

“ Fraiilein Gertrude, you read Byron, I know 
you do.” 

“ Byron ? Oh yes, but not much of him. I 
love Schiller; I read his poems a thousand 
times. It is here I feel as he felt : I like to 
think of him climbing these very mountains, 
breathing this very air, inspired with the same 
scene as we see at this moment.” 

“ That is not as it should be ; it is not like 
you — it is commonplace. Are you not beyond 
wishing to see with the bodily eye the spot 
where the mortal person of the immortal genius 
lived and suffered ? ” 

Gertrude knit her brow thoughtfully; her 
spirit, she feared, was insufficiently refined. She 
was exceedingly interested in Schiller’s stone. 
She started as her aunt’s prosaic voice ad- 
dressed her by name, and yet she was not ill- 
pleased at the change of subject. 

“ Gertrude,” Mrs. Dangerfield said, “ Mr. 
Douglas and I are going up the Biirgen- 
stock. Count Engelbert, we are going to try 
the mountain railway, will you come ? ” 


28 ©n tlje Cake of Ciuerne. 


“ Certainly, I will come.” 

“ Aunt Augusta, it is a steep ascent — worse 
than the Rigi ; you will be giddy.” 

“ Mr. Douglas says that no one could be 
giddy. It is steep, of course, but it is short. 
The view from the top is magnificent, and the 
lights to-day are perfect.” 

When Mrs. Dangerfield spoke in that voice, 
her niece was too wise to contradict her ; she 
submitted herself to a fate, the unpleasantness 
of which she dimly foresaw. 

The following moment the steamer stopped 
alongside the crazy wooden pier of Kehrsiten, 
and Mrs. Dangerfield bustled off, followed by 
her companions, toward the miniature railway 
station. Gertrude turned to watch the steamer 
as, swooping out into the lake, it glided rapidly 
away, with a sinking of heart. A mountain 
railway is trying to untutored nerves, and Miss 
Dangerfield’s head was not a particularly steady 
one. The single carriage formed of three com- 
partments was waiting and empty. Count En- 
gelbert took the tickets, and the party took their 
places in the centre partition, which is, in mercy, 
provided with curtains. Mrs. Dangerfield had 


<£>n tf)e £ake of Uncnnc. 29 


grown very silent ; in fact, an unnatural stillness 
had fallen on the two ladies. With its single 
guard — a light-hearted Swiss, who sang care- 
lessly at his work — this ghastly vehicle began its 
perilous journey. The ascent was steep — ap- 
pallingly steep ; the summit of a mountain near- 
ly twelve hundred feet in height was reached at 
foot-pace in fourteen minutes. At first the rail- 
way crept up through a pine wood, a lovely 
wood, at which Gertrude stole a few nervous 
glances when her vis-a-vzs drew her attention 
to its beauties, then it emerged from the shelter 
of the trees. Along a narrow line cut out from 
the rugged ribs of the mountainside, this most 
hideous form of modern conveyance slowly, and 
with great labor, advanced. Upon one side of 
the carriage the gaunt crags of the Biirgenstock, 
overlapping the excavated railway, hugged the 
window of the train, upon the other hand the 
precipitous cliff shelved sheer down to the 
smooth waters of the lake. Gertrude’s head 
reeled. 

“ If,” said Mrs. Dangerfield, “ if the man — 
there is only one man, I believe — if he should 
have a fit, what would become of us ? ” 


30 (On tl)e £akc of Citcerue. 


She spoke rather hoarsely; no one offered 
a solution of the problem. Count Engelbert 
was enjoying the scenery 7 ; he looked down 
the awful precipice with an appreciative eye, 
steady as a hawk’s. Mrs. Dangerfield never 
lifted her eyes from her lap. Mr. Douglas 
was watching Gertrude, who, alas for her 
courage, had been expecting the worst for 
some minutes, and whose face and lips were 
blanched as white as death; her eyes were 
closed, so she was unconscious of the sym- 
pathy which one of her companions silently 
proffered her. 

“ It is very, very lovely,” said Mrs. Danger- 
field. The “ it ” must have been the pattern of 
white lilac stamped on her foulard gown, for her 
eyes had not yet left her lap. “ When do we 
reach the top ? ” 

“ In two minutes,” answered Mr. Douglas ; 
“only two minutes more of this horrible rail- 
way.” 

“ Does it,” inquired Mrs. Dangerfield inno- 
cently — “ Does it make you feel uncomforta- 
ble?” 

He made an impatient movement, still 


I 


<2)u tl)e Cake af Cuccrne. 31 


watching the increasing pallor of the face he 
loved. 

“Oh, I’m all right,” he said shortly. “I’ve 
got a head like a musical-box : nothing knocks 
it out of tune.” 

As “ e’en the weariest river leads somewhere 
safe to sea,” so the longest of fifteen minutes 
passes, so the most gruesome of journeys gets 
accomplished in time, and so the mountain- 
train, with a whistle that seemed to twang on 
Gertrude’s strung nerves, as a rough hand 
twangs the strings of a harp, drew up at its des- 
tination. 

It was Mr. Douglas’s hand which helped her 
to alight on terra firma ; it was Mr, Douglas 
who hurried her through the blessed shelter of 
trees, and conducted her to a rustic seat without 
— oh, the comfort of it — without a view of any 
sort beyond a tangled thicket of bushes backed 
by a wall of the Biirgenstock Hotel. It was 
Mr. Douglas who told her gently “ to sit still 
for a while, she would be all right directly, her 
head would steady itself now ; he was so sorry, 
so awfully sorry.” It was Mr. Douglas who did 
all this for her, but it was Count Engelbert who, 


32 


©n tl)e £ak e of & uartte. 


when the color had returned to her face, and 
when she had regained control of her nerves, 
was to be found beside her. It was he who 
strolled with her beneath the pines, it was he 
who pointed out to her the merits of the snow- 
capped heights, it was he who picked her a 
handful of the delicate Alpine crocus ; it was he 
who quoted Schiller and Goethe so happily, it 
was for him the color played in her cheeks, and 
a happy serenity shone in her eyes. It was his 
presence, no doubt, added to the anticipation of 
that terrible return journey down the mountain- 
side, that made the time pass with such cruel 
quickness. 

The hour which had been fixed for their re- 
turn drew near. Gertrude, notwithstanding her 
companion, grew silent and distraite — it was 
impossible to be sentimental or elevated with 
this ordeal hanging over her head. Count En- 
gelbert was not observant, he did not notice her 
growing distress. The Alps and the rare air 
inspired him ; he had said some graceful and 
tender things to his comrade, which struck him 
as particularly apt and eloquent ; he was pleased 
with himself, and therefore very happy and con- 


(Bn ll)e £ake af £ttcerne. 33 


tent. Mrs. Dangerfield and Mr. Douglas had 
been discreet enough to keep apart from the 
other couple ; the lady had talked and en- 
joyed herself, the man had smoked and would 
have been profoundly miserable had he not 
comforted himself by planning for the wel- 
fare of Miss Dangerfield. It was a very 
well-meant arrangement, but he mooted it awk- 
wardly. 

“ I say, Miss Dangerfield,” he began, stroll- 
ing up to the rustic seat upon which Gertrude 
and Count Engelbert were seated, “ I say, if you 
don’t like that railway, you need not go back by 
it, don’t you know. There’s a road down the 
mountain to Stanzstad, and the boat will pick 
you up there. It’s an easy walk, four miles, 
lovely country, no giddy passes, good road, have 
made inquiries at the hotel, lots of traffic up and 
down every day.” 

Gertrude’s delighted smile warmed Mr. 
Douglas’ heart. 

“ Only four miles,” he repeated encouraging- 
ly — “ nothing of a walk, all down hill.” 

“I would rather walk fifty miles — I would 
rather walk five hundred miles than go down 


3 


34 ©tt tt)c take of lucerne. 


the Biirgenstock railway,” she said, with vehe- 
mence. 

And so it came to pass that Count Engelbert 
and Miss Dangerfield set off to walk to Stanz- 
stad, defying Mrs. Grundy ( but then in Switzer- 
land Mrs. Grundy rarely travels, for she meets 
too many of her cousins from over the water 
there, those cousins who have shaken off her 
tyrannous hand), while Mrs. Dangerfield, sup- 
pressing some natural excitement, for she fore- 
saw a possible matrimonial sequel to the day’s 
excursion, returned with Mr. Douglas to the sta- 
tion, and decended to Kehrsiten by the train. 

That walk down the mountain-side Gertrude 
Dangerfield never forgot, it seemed to her that 
its memory never dimmed ; it had taken its col- 
oring from the great artist, Nature, and such 
tints are eternal. The relief of escaping from 
the dreaded descent was joy sufficient, and the 
crisp air, scented with pines, invigorated her. 
The heaving sides of the deep vale, the pine- 
woods, the pasture-land, on which the cattle, 
their bells tinkling as they moved, browsed peace- 
fully, the low Swiss cottages, scattered at ran- 
dom both in the valley and on the mountain 


©n tl)e £ake of £ucerne. 35 


side, the belt of blue water, the frowning snow- 
topped crags, the changing lights, the rich re- 
pose, the loveliness, the glory and the wonder, 
the grandeur of the whole, made a picture 
upon the like of which she had never before 
looked. 

Down the zig - zag path they paced : he 
seemed to be in thought, he spoke so little, but 
he walked slowly and kept his eyes on the land- 
scape ; Gertrude was content to talk or to be 
silent as he pleased, she would have been con- 
tent to walk on thus forever if he would have it 
so. Considering her twenty-four years, she was 
strangely unpractical ; she did not look forward 
nor back, she lived in the present ; it was not a 
husband she wanted, not a wedding ring, or a 
trousseau, or a pretty house ; she only wanted 
some one upon whom she might lavish every 
treasure of heart and mind which she possessed ; 
she had wanted such a person all her life, and 
now it seemed to her she had found him. She 
stole a long look at his dark face, it was hand- 
some and powerful enough to rivet any woman’s 
attention, she wondered whether he would pre- 
sent her with those thoughts which clouded his 


36 (Dtt t\)c £ake of £t xtttne. 


eyes and lined his brow; she rather fancied he 
would, and presently he did so. 

“ It is your poet, Lewis Morris,” he said, 
“ who has put the mountain thoughts into 
words. It was in his work I found my own idea 
set down. I look at you and feel it all again.” 

“ I do not know,” she faltered ; “ I have not 
read. I do not think I feel anything that I 
could classify.” 

He silenced her with a gesture of his hand, 
and went on speaking — 

“ These are the words. Listen : 

‘ Oh, snows so pure ! — Oh, peaks so high I 
I lift to thee a hopeless eye.’ 

That is one isolated thought — a spiritual crav- 
ing. Then comes a human want — a great long- 
ing. It is mixed with earth — 

‘ I see thee, passionless and pure, 

Above the lightnings stand secure.’ ” 

Gertrude was a little troubled. It frightened 
her to hear him compare her to a lonely snow- 
mountain. She did not want to stand alone 
above the lightnings ; it was not with a hopeless 
eye that she wished to be regarded. She wished 


(Dn tl)e take of Cucarne. 37 


he had thought only of the mountains and not 
of her. She accepted the role with a vague dis- 
quietude. 

“ It is as a noble maiden should be,” he 
went on slowly, “proud, pure, inaccessible — only 
to be reached by laborious traveling, only to be 
gained by the bravest, the most untiring, the 
steadfast climber, who faces death to reach her 
heart.” 

This language seemed so beautiful to the 
listener that her heart leaped in her breast, and 
sudden tears dimmed her eyes. 

“ I have climbed,” he murmured, as if think- 
ing aloud — “I have toiled — I have worked 
much. I — ” She held her breath to listen — 
“ have gained the summit. I have reached her 
heart.” 

There was a long pause. Gertrude pale as 
ashes, was yet conscious of surprise that he 
should take so much for granted— should have 
pierced her English reserve and read her secret.. 
She turned cold. How could he compare her to 
an inaccessible snow-mountain under these cir- 
cumstances? It was very beautiful, but puz- 
zling too. 


38 ©n tt)e take of lucerne. 


He was speaking again. He turned and 
looked at Gertrude — her eyes were cast upon 
the ground, her bent head was averted. 

“To none but you, meine Cousine — to none 
other could I speak thus. It is of her that you 
have so much reminded me — the likeness is re- 
markable and dear to me. These things are too 
sacred for the ears of all ; I do not speak of her 
but to you. I love, and am loved again. I go 
to Richsten to-morrow to marry my bride — my 
Hildegunde — who looks at me from blue eyes 
which resemble yours so strangely.” 

Gertrude had the blood of two brave nations 
in her veins, and she did them credit. Over the 
Burgenstock ascent her nerves had reeled ; but 
the descent, the vast descent she made in Count 
Engelbert’s company did not shake her forti- 
tude. It was about as deadly and precipitous a 
descent as any poor woman could be called on, 
without a moments warning, to traverse, but she 
did not falter or tremble; she kept her head, 
and reached the bottom in safety. 

When the Count had once broken the ice, 
and demeaned himself sufficiently to mention 
the sacred Hildegunde, he did — as more com- 


©n t t)e £ake of £ucmie. 39 


monplace gentlemen do — he talked of her inces- 
santly. He was deeply in love, the theme was 
of overwhelming interest, and he gave his sym- 
pathetic companion an unstinted dose of the 
subject. 

It was dusk when they reached the hotel. 
Mr. Douglas, surrounded by rugs and portman- 
teaux, was waiting in the portico for the 
station omnibus. He approached Miss Dan- 
gerfield. 

“ I’m just off,” he said ; “ so glad you came 
back in time for me to say good-by.” 

He took her hand and stared into her 
face. 

“ God bless you, whatever happens,” he said 
gruffly. “ You look done up : that beastly train 
knocked you out of time. Go and lie down and 
rest — now do.” 

And she did, nerving herself meanwhile for 
the coming evening, and a not distant explana- 
tion with her aunt. For the first time in her life 
she regretted Laurence Douglas’s absence. 

“ Aunt Augusta would have talked to him,’’ 
she thought. “ As it is she will do nothing but 
watch me.’’ 


40 ©n t!)e Cake of fLnztxnt. 


Every trial of life would be more bearable 
without the observant eyes of our kind friends 
and neighbors. 

At table d'hote Count Engelbert was beside 
her, talking more than usual, and in such low, 
confidential tones that Mrs. Dangerfield’s mind 
was at rest. At length Gertrude’s settlement in 
life was assured ; it was evident that the young 
couple understood one another. She made all 
arrangements for their wedding — settled its 
date, locality of the ceremony, her own toilette , 
the number of the bridesmaids, the expense of 
the trousseau , in her mind’s eye during the din- 
ner-hour, and beamed graciously upon the 
world, so satisfied was she to have reached the 
long-sought goal. 

It was late that night when Mrs. Dangerfield, 
in dressing-gown and slippers, and with her 
brow bent ominously low over her angry eyes, 
sought her niece’s bedroom. Gertrude was sit- 
ting before her toilet-table ; she had not taken 
off her evening gown. On her lap a few faded 
Alpine crocuses were lying ; her eyes were 
sunken and heavy-lidded, her face was very 
pale. She turned to her aunt with a smile 


0n t \)c £akc of Cttcerne. 41 


which strove to be bright, and which only suc- 
ceeded in being nervous and deprecating. The 
smile mollified Mrs. Dangerfield. She loved 
Gertrude in her own way, and there was some- 
thing a little piteous in that smile. 

“ My dear, you ought to be in bed. You 
look tired out after that detestable excursion ; 
such a long walk was too much for you. But 
Laurence Douglas is as obstinate as a pig, and 
that German has no discrimination. Foreigners 
are so extraordinary ; one must not judge them 
as we judge other men. Think how he has 
singled you out, made you conspicuous by his 
attentions for weeks, and all the while he was 
engaged to be married ! He tells your Uncle 
John that he leaves Lucerne to be married. He 
leaves to-morrow 

44 1 know,” said Gertrude ; “ he told me.” 

44 You knew it, Gertrude ! Then ” — sitting 
down heavily on a hard chair — 44 then, I declare, 
I don’t call it — proper.” 

“ Aunt Augusta ! ” 

“ I repeat that it is not proper to follow one 
girl about like a dog when you are not going to 
marry her. I consider he has made a fool of 


42 ®n ll)e Cake of Cucerne. 


you, and of me, and of Mr. Douglas. I consider 
you have conspired to deceive us." 

“ Aunt Augusta ! ” 

“ That is all, Gertrude. I have nothing more 
to say. If you were a flirt like my girls I could 
understand you; but when you go mooning 
about with a man for weeks like this you mys- 
tify me — you put me out of patience. There ! 
don’t make a fuss ; it is over now. Luckily none 
of our people know anything about it. It is 
very unfortunate that before Laurence Douglas, 
of all men, you made an exhibition of your oddi- 
ties. However, if you have no objection to be- 
ing an old maid, of course I need not repine at 
your fate. Good night." 

Strangely enough, Mrs. Dangerfield’s pro- 
phetic words were not fulfilled. Two years lat- 
er Gertrude again visited the Schweitzerhoff Ho- 
tel at Lucerne, but this time she had assumed 
the dignity of matronhood and had changed 
her name to that of Douglas. She came as a 
bride — rather a silent, pensive bride; but her 
bridegroom was well satisfied to have her as she 


was. 


©n tt)e take of lucerne. 43 


It was natural that their thoughts should 
revert to their former experiences in Switzer- 
land, when they found themselves surrounded 
by the familiar hills and mountains. 

As they once more sat in the varandah be- 
neath the palms and the ferns, and within sound 
of the band, Mr. Douglas, for the second time 
in his life, spoke to her of Count Engelbert. 

“ He wasn’t much of a chap really, dear,” he 
said, looking rather searchingly into his wife’s 
eyes, and wishing he could see into her mind for 
one moment. “ If you hadn’t liked him, upon 
my word I should have called him an ass — a 
sentimental ass.” 

Mrs. Douglas smiled. 

“ Birds of a feather should flock together, 
Laurence.” 

" Pshaw ! ” he said, “ that’s ridiculous. Don’t 
you know two of a trade never agree ? ” 




FENELLA.— A TRUE STORY. 


CHAPTER I. 

At a small railway station upon the Great 
Western line which curves through the lovely 
vales and between the rugged hills of South 
Wales, a little tragedy was being tragically en- 
acted by two young people. 

The morning express had just rushed along- 
side the platform and paused in its hard-hearted 
career to engulf the owner of a most lugubrious 
face, which obtruded itself from one of the rail- 
way carriage windows. The face was a hand- 
some one, with well-cut features, dark express- 
ive eyes, meant for laughter, not tears, but now 
suspiciously humid, the whole arising from a 
pair of broad, well-drilled shoulders, the turn of 
which proclaimed their owner to be a servant of 
his country, a member of that profession dear to 
the female heart — in fact, a soldier. 


iTcncila. — Qt ®ruc Storji. 45 


That this soldier was dear to one female 
heart was very evident, for a girl, too miserable 
to care for the notice which she attracted from 
the solitary porter and the consequential station- 
master, or for the curious glances of ill-bred 
passengers, stood staring up into his face while 
the tears rolled down her rosy cheeks, and her 
lips quivered into those hideous contortions 
which most of her sex, unless rendered reckless 
by woe, are careful to conceal by their pocket- 
handkerchiefs. 

The sun streamed down from a cloudless 
June sky upon her slim figure, clad in a blue 
cotton dress, and crept beneath the brim of her 
sailor hat, worn sprucely on a trim brown head, 
to illumine, with cruel frankness, round blue 
eyes drowned in tears and a forehead puckered 
and creased with a conflict of dismal emotions. 

“ Harry, you will write — you will write con- 
stantly ? You won’t forget me?” 

The words were drowned in the hissing of 
the engine. Harry guessed their import, but 
dared not trust himself to speak. Notwithstand- 
ing his twenty-four years, notwithstanding his 
mustache, he had a lump in his throat and a 


46 iFendla.— & ®nxe 6 tor 


pain at his heart which were momentarily in- 
creased by the undisguised wretchedness of his 
hitherto high-spirited and sprightly lady-love. 

“ Harry, you won’t f-f-flirt going out ; be- 
cause I know the girls who go to India are 
so f-f-fast.” 

The whistle very properly blotted out this 
last petition by a prolonged shriek. Harry 
raised the hands which he held in a desper- 
ately tight grasp to his lips. 

“ Good-bye, Ellie ! God bless you ! good- 
bye, dear.” 

One last kiss ; the tear on his cheek must 
have been hers ; he brushed it away, and as the 
carriage began to move slowly alongside the 
platform, he leaned still farther from the win- 
dow watching that forlorn blue figure until the 
ever-increasing speed of the train whisked him 
out of sight. 

These two — Mr. Lewis, Lieutenant in Her 
Majesty’s 220th Regiment of Foot, and Miss 
Fenella Yorke, were engaged to be married, but 
between them and their anticipated wedding 
stretched a long year of parting. Fenella had 
neither mother nor sister ; her father, who acted 


.fcneUa.— & &nt t Stor^. 47 


as land-agent to one of the finest properties in 
Bradnorshire, was engrossed by his profession ; 
and though in all relations of life he bore an un- 
impeachable character, one necessary quality 
was missing from the catalogue of estimable vir- 
tues which he owned ; he lacked sympathy. 
That fatal deficiency was a barrier to popularity; 
Mr. Yorke was universally respected, but not 
loved, and his daughter's affection for him was 
tempered by fear. When, three months previ- 
ously, Mr. Lewis had taken up his quarters in 
the village inn, ostensibly to fish, in reality to 
see Miss Yorke, whose acquaintance he had 
made at the house of a mutual friend, Mr. 
Yorke had asked him to the house and patron- 
ised him as the true sportsman he had pro- 
claimed himself to be by facing the discom- 
forts of that primitive inn for the sake of his 
craft. 

However, the young man had disappointed 
him ; though he lingered on week after week in 
the village, he proved himself a wretched and 
apathetic fisherman, and added to his offences 
by one morning entering the library, upon an 
occasion when Mr. Yorke was more than usually 


43 iTcnella. — Qt &rtte Gtarti. 


busy, to inform the astonished father that Fe- 
nella had consented to marry him. 

“ If you mean to keep her upon the fish you 
catch," said Mr. Yorke severely, “ it won’t do, 
for Fenella has a remarkably large appetite.” 

But such was not the young man’s intention. 
He had inherited an ample income from his 
parents, now dead, and he was, he urged, in a 
position to marry at once ; indeed, the wedding 
must be celebrated immediately, for he was 
obliged to return in June to India, where he was 
stationed until the following summer. 

“ Fenella is under age, and I do not wish her 
to marry yet,” Mr. Yorke responded, thus imply- 
ing that his wish was indeed law. “ India ruins 
the health, disposition, and appearance of wo- 
men. Next year you will probably have got 
your company; certainly you will have re- 
turned to remain for some time in England. 
You will both be older, and, I hope wiser by the 
delay ; therefore wait to be married until then. 
No real affection was ever damaged by keep- 
ing.” 

Mr. Lewis was a more ardent lover than 
sportsman; he argued hotly that in so short a 


fcncWa — Ql ®rue Storjj. 


49 


life a year of happiness was too long a period to 
be wasted ; but he argued in vain. 

“ Pooh ! my dear fellow, don’t be so impul- 
sive. A year of the anticipation of happiness 
will possibly prove more agreeable than a year 
of marriage. You and she are too young to 
know your own minds ; you are a boy and 
girl, and matrimony is too serious a matter to be 
undertaken without serious contemplation. I 
do not object to you as a son-in-law, but I do 
object to my daughter marrying you until you 
have proved the sincerity of your affection by 
a period of probation. I will consent to your 
engagement, but only on this stipulation.” 

And thus it came to pass that upon this love- 
ly June day these two young people had bidden 
one another a long good-bye, and had, for al- 
most the first time in their lives, learned practi- 
cally, or rather physically, the unpleasant mean- 
ing of that expressive term, “the heart-ache.” 
Hitherto — until, indeed, th#' acute pain of parting 
had wrung some token of deep feeling from 
them — they had been a most undemonstrative 
pair of lovers. For sentimentality and converse 
of the soul they cared nothing ; practical jokes 


4 


50 ifenella— % ®rue Storj). 


usurped the place of embraces, a fire of banter 
and repartee ousted tender speeches, and most 
wild and mischievous escapades had absorbed 
the attention of this harum-scarum couple. As 
the gardener had one day remarked to his 
wife: “Deed to gutness, Betsy, they are like 
the young pooppiess, all their trouble afore 
them.” 

Now their troubles had begun. Fenella, as 
she waved her hand to the vanishing train, and 
then stood gazing down the valley until the last 
faint streak of smoke had melted into air, felt 
that the sunshine was no longer cheerful, nor 
the air sweet, nor the country good to look 
upon, nor the flowers worth picking, because he 
with whom she had shared such things had 
gone, and taken with him the brightness and the 
beauty from them. But, being a brave girl both 
by nature and habit, she mopped her eyes with 
her soaked handkerchief, choked back a sob, 
and told herself with decision that a year was a 
very, very short time ; only, oh, cheerful thought ! 
fifty-two Sundays, and she should again be wait- 
ing on that very platform — in a brand-new frock 
which should be pink, because pink was his 


ifenella. — & ®rtte Store. 


5i 


favorite color, with a rose in her waist-belt 
which should match her cheeks, flushed with 
the thought of meeting him ; and the train would 
come winding up the valley, and that very head 
which had just disappeared would again be 
thrust from the window, and in the delight of 
the meeting all remembrance of the parting 
would be obliterated. 

By the time Fenella had cheered herself by 
these reflections, she had left the station far be- 
hind, and had approached the stile which led to 
a short cut across two fields, by which was 
reached Capel Issa, the ivy-covered house where 
Mr. Yorke, his daughter and his boy Bertie, 
lived. Upon the stile Bertie was seated swing- 
ing his feet, and whistling a lively air — a very 
lively air, because his spirits, too, were strung 
below their usual pitch, for, with his future 
brother-in-law’s departure, he had lost his ideal 
of manly perfection, and a source of constant 
wealth. 

Bertie Yorke, to his own and his neighbors’ 
sorrow, suffered from delicate health, and al- 
though he was a tall boy of twelve, he was not 
considered strong enough for school life, but 


5 2 


.fettella.— & ®rue Storg. 


remained at home, where his lessons became the 
daily trial of the middle-aged vicar, who had, at 
Mr. Yorke’s earnest petition, undertaken his tui- 
tion. He, Mr. Pierpoint, the vicar, was a bache- 
lor, old, staid, and retiring; but ever since Fe- 
nella was a baby he had thought her face the 
sweetest, her manner the most winning, and 
herself the only woman in the world whom he 
desired as his wife. For her sake he patiently 
endured for three mortal hours each morning 
the presence of the most restless, most idle, 
most mischievous of boys, and even drew some 
satisfaction from the infliction because Bertie’s 
blue eyes had a look, and Bertie’s voice had a 
tone, of his sister’s. His perceptions, sharpened 
by his love, foresaw, with Harry Lewis’s arrival, 
the collapse of the dream of his life ; but when 
the engagement had been announced no con- 
gratulations had been heartier, no hopes for her 
happiness had been so sincere as his. Nature 
delights in contrasts ; she had formed the out- 
ward man most awkwardly— he was shy, un- 
gainly, ugly ; within, every attribute was perfect 
—no truer, more constant, more unselfish heart 
ever beat beneath a shabby waistcoat. The 


-fenellci.—QL &rne Storg. 53 


tougher and rougher the rind, the sweeter and 
better preserved the fruit. 

“ Halloa, Ellie, here you are at last ! The 
train went off an hour ago. Do look sharp ! 
Old Pierpoint’s waiting/' 

Fenella found her voice with difficulty ; it 
quavered as she spoke. 

“ It is so naughty, Bertie ! This is the only 
day I have not taken you down to the vicarage, 
and you have not gone at all.” 

“ I’m going, ain’t I ? I meant to have gone 
down to the station with both of you, only Harry 
gave me half a crown not to come. Fenella, 
you have been blubbing.” 

“ I have been crying,” said she ; she spoke 
with dignity. To weep was so unheard-of an 
emotion with her that she could not treat the 
circumstance lightly. 

“ It will be pretty beastly without Harry,” 
the urchin continued, wriggling down from his 
seat on the stile, and begining to walk very leis- 
urely along the high road which led to the vicar- 
age ; “ but he will turn up again next year ; and 
if he don’t why, we did very well without him 
until now, so I shouldn’t blub if I were you.” 


54 inenella.— & ®rue Stern. 


This young philosopher’s words annoyed his 
sister. 

“ You do not understand what you are talk- 
ing about, Bertie. Of course — of course — of 
course he will come back ; I should die if he 
didn’t.” 

She finished her outburst with a sob which 
amazed the boy. 

“ Don’t be a fool ! ” he said, thrusting his 
hands far down in his pockets, and staring up 
into the sky ; “ he will come back all right if he 
isn’t killed, and if he doesn’t meet some jollier 
girl than you.” 

“ Bertie, if I thought it would hurt you,” 
Fenella cried, exasperated, “ I would box your 
ears. You need not laugh — I mean it.” 

As she spoke they reached the corner of the 
road where an iron gate, set open, disclosed the 
short drive leading to the vicarge. Upon this 
drive stood the long, lean figure of the clergy- 
man, surmounted by a face which looked out 
thoughtfully from beneath an untidy head of 
hair and above an unkempt beard. In one hand 
he held a basket high piled with ripe strawber- 
ries, in the other a great bunch of roses. 


ifeneila. — Qt ®me Store. 55 


“ Oh, Mr. Pierpoint,” said Fenella, address- 
ing him eagerly, “ Bertie has kept you waiting 
again, but this time it was not my fault. He 
promised to go to you punctually, so I went 
down to the station and left him. I am so 
sorry ! ” 

“ I haven’t done that Latin exercise,” Bertie 
admitted candidly. “Ellie was tattooing F. Y. 
with gunpowder and a needle on Harry’s wrist, 
so she would not help me.” To Bertie’s in- 
tense surprise, his quiet tutor reproved him 
sharply. 

“Can you never do your duty, Cuthbert, 
without the assistance of your sister ? Do you 
expect to have her at your beck and call 
through life ? Is she to be constantly employed 
In urging you to perform your tasks, and must 
she not only undertake your responsibilities but 
apologize to me for their non-performance ? Go 
on into the house ; go on, I say, this moment, 
and get to your work.” Mr. Pierpoint energetic 
and angry was so novel a spectacle that Bertie, 
awed, slunk off obediently and immediately in 
the direction indicated, while Fenella fell back 
a pace, and raising her tear-stained blue eyes to 


56 £tnt\\a — 21 QLxnc Stern. 


his in wonder, looked at him from under the 
brim of her white sailor hat. 

“ My dear Fenella, I know you have enough 
to bear to-day,” he began, his manner and the 
tone of his voice altering to one of gentle solici- 
tude, “ and your little brother’s unbridled tongue 
is trying at times — I know it.” Then, with a 
sudden uncouth gesture, he thrust the basket 
of fruit and the nosegay of flowers toward 
her : “ I have gathered strawberries and the 
Marechal Niels for you. Nay, don’t thank me ; 
I can not wait to hear you. I only wish 
they were a thousand times better, so that 
they might be more worthy of your accept- 
ance ” ; and, turning away, he hurried into the 
house, tripping over a stone and stumbling up 
the low step which led into the house in his 
hurry. 

Fenella watched him with an indulgent 
smile ; what a kind and thoughtful man he was, 
and yet how ungainly. Until lately she had 
never remarked his deficiencies. It was with 
Harry's self-reliant bearing, his prompt, decisive 
movements, his spruceness, his sleek head and 
clean-shaven face, that she now contrasted the 


ir^nella.— ^ ®rue Starg. 


57 


clumsy and dowdy vicar, to the latter’s appall- 
ing disadvantage. 

Although women will not allow it, and men 
do not believe it, the razor has a mighty influ- 
ence in affairs of the heart, and the want of a 
barber may ruin the happiness of a lifetime. 
When an unkempt beard is connected with 
awkwardness of manner, then woe to the pos- 
sessor of the combination if a-wooing he would 
go. 

How slowly three months pass when into 
them are pressed such wretched moments as 
poor Fenella experienced during the period 
which lay between that June morning and the 
following September ! How hope deferred can 
make the most buoyant and elastic young heart 
ache ! The girl, as I told you, was brave, and 
to her sturdiness was added a pride which com- 
pelled her to keep her trouble to herself, and to 
let no one guess why she had grown silent and 
sedate, why her laughter was never heard and 
her smile seldom seen ; why she came down to 
breakfast heavy-eyed and pale ; why her restless 
hands rattled the tea-cups behind the urn as her 
father unlocked the post-bag and tossed its con- 


58 iFenella — & Stars. 


tents upon the breakfast-table. But, as every 
one knows, truth will out, and so, upon one 
morning in September, poor Fenella's secret be- 
came public property. 

Mr. Yorke, between his professional work, 
which was considerable, and the sport that oc- 
cupied his spare hours, had not much leisure in 
which to notice the growing alteration in his 
daughter’s mood. It was Bertie who drew his 
attention to her in the following manner. He 
stood in no awe of his reserved father, and had 
invaded the library uninvited, and addressed his 
parent abruptly : 

“I say, dad, old Pierpoint says that if you 
don’t look after Ellie she’ll die, and then you’ll 
be sorry.” 

“ What, Bertie ? ” 

“ That’s all. I can’t stop ; Elbe’s waiting for 
me on the drive.” 

Breakfast was just over, and it was the hour 
when the boy and his sister usually started for 
the vicarage. 

“ Wait ; I forbid you to move. Come over 
to me and explain what you mean.” 

“ It’s old Pierpoint, father. He talks about 


ifendla. — Qt tote Storn. 


59 


Ellie all the time. That beast Harry was going 
to write from Gibraltar, and from Malta, and 
from Suez, and from India, and he has been 
gone for ages and never written a line. If,” 
with a significant gesture of his little clenched 
fist, “ I was a bit older. I’d give him such a 
licking. Ellies no good at all, now ; she don’t 
care about anything but the post.” 

Mr. Yorke glanced down at the open ac- 
count-book before him on the table, and care- 
fully wrote down an entry ; then he closed the 
book and rose. 

“You may go now, Cuthbert, and send Fe- 
nella to me. Send her to me immediately ; you 
can walk to the vicarage by yourself for once in 
your life.” 

“ All right ! but old Pierpoint will be awfully 
disappointed.” 

Mr. Yorke was extremely disconcerted by 
this news of his son’s, and when the door 
opened to admit Fenella, he turned toward her 
with some irritation. The irritation arose from 
perplexity, for he felt that to console a love-lorn 
maiden was a task altogether beyond his pow- 
ers. But Fenella was perfectly composed and 


6o fenella — & ®rtt e St0m 


cheerful. Her short upper lip, which seemed 
formed for laughter, was drawn down, and met 
the nether lip in a firm, straight line ; she held 
her head high, and looked wonderfully pretty in 
her covert coat and cloth cap ; her appearance 
was reassuring — consolation would be superflu- 
ous. 

“ You want to speak to me, father, Bertie 
says. I paid the butcher’s bill last night, and 
put the receipt upon your desk.” 

“ Y es, yes, my dear, I saw it ; but it was not 
on that subject I wished to consult you. On a 
less — nay, I should say a more — important busi- 
ness. This young Lewis, to whom you are en- 
gaged ; Bertie informs me that — ahem— he is 
not a good correspondent. Ahem ! in fact, you 
have heard nothing from him since his depart- 
ure. Is that true ? ” 

“ Perfectly true.” 

“ How do you account for this preposterous 
defection ? ” 

The probing of a fresh and bleeding wound 
is a painful operation, but Fenella bore it with- 
out wincing. 

“ I can not account for it, father.” 


£enella 1 31 ftrtie Storg. 61 


“ Do you consider the man is a scoundrel ? 
Or that he is incapacitated by illness from hold- 
ing a pen or dictating a letter? ” 

“ He is well. I thought he might be ill, and 
I wrote to his sister. I got the answer yester- 
day.” 

“ Let me see it, if you have it here.” 

In silence she drew the letter from her 
pocket and handed it to him. This was it : 

“ Dear Fenella : Many thanks for your 
note ; it ought to have been answered before, 
but my children have been ill, so I was busy. 
I heard from Harry last mail — a very cheery let- 
ter, full of picnics, polo, and all kinds of festivi- 
ties. You were a weak young woman to let 
him go to India without you, because, you know, 
Harry is a great ladies’-man, and such a flirt, 
though the dearest boy in the world. I hope 
you will come and stay with us in the winter. I 
do not see why Harry should be the only one to 
enjoy himself, and I am very anxious to make 
your acquaintance. 

“ Yours affectionately, 

“Madeline Wynne.” 


62 


iFendla .— % &xne Storg. 


Mr. Yorke frowned as he read the letter. 

“ Did you tell — this person of her brother’s 
extraordinary behavior ? ” 

“ No.” 

“Then on what subject did you write to 
her?” 

Fenella had written merely as a means of 
extracting an answer in which it was probable 
she might hear some tidings, however disas- 
trous, of Harry Lewis, and she said so. 

“ Then sit down there, and write to tell her 
that her brother is a most unprincipled young 
man, who has behaved to you in a way so dis- 
graceful as to be actionable. Tell her that the 
engagement is at an end, and that if your father 
could break his stick across the fellow’s shoulders 
it would be the proudest moment of his life,” 
etc., etc., in the same strain. Mr. Yorke re- 
lieved his anger by violent language, to which 
his daughter listened with head still held high, 
though her face, and her lips even, grew as 
white as her linen collar. As soon as the tirade 
was over she answered — 

“ I can not write, father ; he must tell her 
himself. I will never see his name, nor hear it. 


nav^e quite forgotten 


him already.” 

And she stamped her little foot on the 
ground, and her beautiful blue eyes were as cold 
as her voice. 

An hour later this frigid, proud young wom- 
an lay upon the floor of her bedroom with her 
arms round the neck of a black poodle, which 
had been her faithless lover’s last gift to her; 
and with tears rolling down her cheeks, and 
sobs jagging her breath, she told the sympa- 
thetic dog that she loved him— him — him, bet- 
ter than the whole world. Whether “ him ” 
meant the poodle or his master, she did not say. 


CHAPTER II. 

Summoning her courage and her pride to 
her aid, Fenella Yorke bore unflinchingly that 
cruel kind of notoriety which a girl who has 
been jilted acquires in the eyes of her neighbors. 
Officious inquiries after her health, commisera- 
tion over her pale cheeks, suggestions for change 
of air and scene, assailed her from all sides, and 


were dreadful to i>s r ' 

consequently from society, choosing for her 
chief companion the quiet vicar, who had never 
by word nor look approached that painful sub- 
ject which was too fresh to bear the most delicate 
handling. She had selected Mr. Pierpoint as a 
friend because of this forbearance on his part ; 
she had no idea that he had more affection for 
her than he bestowed upon the flowers in his 
garden (her only rivals), and at which he looked 
in much the same indulgent, tender way as he 
looked at her. 

Upon one winter day, when the flowers were 
dead, and Christmas was close at hand, Fenella, 
on her way to the village post-office, passed the 
church, and, seeing the door standing open, she 
wandered through and stood in the dimly light- 
ed aisle colored by the stained glass of the 
window, looking about her with sad eyes. 
Every spot was full of memories, but the church 
was the fullest of them all. Her thoughts 
rebelled against her control, and rushed back to 
the time when that stalwart, upright figure — a 
prince of men amongst the rough country folk 
there — had sat, and stood, and knelt beside her 


fznclla . — ®rue Storji. 65 


in that dark pew in the chancel. She clenched 
her little hand and swallowed a great sob. 
Then a voice, deeper, softer, fuller than any 
voice she had ever before heard, addressed 
her — 

“ My darling,” it said, “ I have suffered as 
you are suffering now for years. I love you 
with my whole heart, Fenella. Yes, my dear, 
this is a sacred spot, I know, but these words 
hallow it — they are sacred too.” 

How the Fenella of old days would have 
laughed at such words, and of such surprising 
import, from Mr. Pierpoint ! But the Fenella of 
to-day had changed ; she was silent, and in si- 
lence they left the church and walked across the 
churchyard side by side. 

“ I am too old for you, my dear — too old in 
looks and ways, if not in years, I fear. But, if 
you can, give me hope, only the faintest ray of 
hope, that some day in the future you will re- 
member what I say. I understand my flowers ; 
they* thrive under my care — I might learn in 
time a way to make you happy. You should 
have everything you want. I have money, more 
—much more than I need. That is nothing, I 


5 


66 


jFeneila. — Qi ®rrte Storn 


know ; I should not have even mentioned it to 
you, but that I love you so much that I try in 
every way to win you merely to think of me, 
Fenella.’' 

Not a word of the old time had he spoken ; 
she had shivered for fear of it, but she might 
have known him better. 

“ Do you want to marry me ? ” she said. 
(What a contrast — her calm question to the agi- 
tated manner of the first speaker ! ) 

“ I have told you that I love you very 
dearly.” 

“ Then,” turning her blue eyes to his white 
face and looking at him anxiously, “ I will marry 
you. Of course I will ; you are so kind to me. 
And we,” speaking rapidly, “ could be married 
soon — at Easter ; we will put the wedding in all 
the papers — all of them, every one. We need 
not live here, need we ? At least, we might go 
away for months and months. Bertie might 
come too ; you would not mind that ? for he 
would miss me if I left him.” 

And so it came to pass that Fenella Yorke’s 
engagement to the Rev. Andrew Pierpoint was 
duly announced in the papers where such no- 


ifenella. — & (Erne Stcrrg. 67 


tices appear. And the neighbors talked, and 
wondered, and laughed. The women said, 
“Foolish girl; she is marrying out of pique ! ” 
and their husbands answered, “ Nonsense ! the 
vicar is the best fellow in the world, and the 
woman who marries him is the luckiest woman 
in it.” But they repeated, “ She is marrying out 
of pique." 

Neither the expectant bridegroom nor the 
bride-elect was troubled by the gossip. If the 
bride-elect’s spirits flagged, her gentleness and 
sweetness had increased. Her manner to Mr. 
Pierpoint was perfect in its way ; she treated 
him with deference, and was always ready to 
yield to his wishes. The little coquette, whose 
pranks and uproarious spirits had once fasci- 
nated and captivated Mr. Lewis, had gone, and 
in her place was a calm, indifferent girl. Only 
the poodle knew from what a tempest of sorrow 
that calmness and indifference had grown. 

It was a pleasure to look at the vicar. Hap- 
piness is a cosmetic which rarely fails to beau- 
tify the plainest face. He had grown both 
handsome and energetic, and, if he still stum- 
bled over steps and foot-stools, knocked over 


68 JTeneila. — 31 ®rue Storg. 


tea-cups, and bumped against his neighbors 
whenever he could find an opportunity of so 
doing, Fenella never noticed it. He might be 
graceful or awkward ; it was one to her. 

Bertie was the only person who found fault 
with her engagement. 

“ That old chap your husband ? ” he said. 
“ Bosh, Ellie ! Why don’t you wait ? Some one 
smarter than he might turn up. I wouldn’t 
marry at all if I couldn’t find any one better 
than an old Father Christmas like that.” 

“ You are only a silly little boy, Bertie, or 
you would know that one doesn’t marry a per- 
son because he is young or — or — smart, as you 
call it.” 

“ I ain’t a fool,” he growled. “ You should 
marry a fellow because you like him ; but you 
don't like him ; he is such a funny old chap, 
with black teeth.” 

“ Hush, Bertie ! Mr. Pierpoint is much, 
much too good for me.” 

“ I daresay he is, but, all the same, Har — ” 

But Ellie had gone out of the room, so he 
said no more. 

The last days of blustering March had 


iFienella.-— Qt ®nte Starji. 69 


arrived ; the dreary long weeks were nearly 
over, and the expected wedding was close at 
hand. 

In the vicarage library the vicar was sitting 
over the fire with a book in his hand, but he was 
not reading ; his happy eyes were fixed dreamily 
on the blazing coals in the grate, among the 
caves and caverns of which he saw blissful pict- 
ures of his future life. An hour before, he had 
parted from his sweet lady-love. She had gone 
out into the hall at Capel Issa with him, and had 
assisted him to wriggle into his great-coat. She 
had laid her white hand on his sleeve, and had 
not drawn away when he kissed her pale cheek 
and smoothed her brown hair. 

“ Can I make you happy, Fenella ? ” he had 
whispered brokenly, and she had answered back, 
with a brave smile — 

“ I shall be hard to please and most ungrate- 
ful if you can not, Andrew.” 

Yes, he would make her happy ; she was so 
young; as the years passed she would surely 

forget that He shut his teeth hard, and 

looked the anathema he would not utter— and 
he, steadily, unceasingly persevering In his effort 


70 


iFeneUa.— & ®rue Stars. 


to win her love, must . succeed ; he was confi- 
dent in his own powers; nothing should resist 
him. 

A rap at the door roused him. His “ Come 
in ” sounded impatient ; he was loath to be dis- 
turbed from the building of his stately air-cas- 
tles. 

“ If you please, sir, you are wanted at once. 
Mrs. Williams, poor woman, is dying. Indeed, 
it’s sad, sir, for she was as well as you or I this 
morning.” 

“ Did she send for me, Keziah ? ” 

“Yes, sir; her son, poor fellow, has come 
for you ; 'deed now, he ran every step of the 
way. She is asking for you all the time, he 
says, and won’t rest till you go.” 

With alacrity the kind-hearted vicar rose. 

“Fetch me my hat and coat, Keziah; I 
will go immediately. Make up a good fire; I 
have some — ahem — work to do when I come 
home.” * 

He would return shortly to those pleasant 
day-dreams, and sit far on into the night while 
he indulged them ; but he was concerned to 
hear of his old parishioner’s sudden illness ; life 


i'enella. — Qi ®nte Stars. 


7i 


was so sweet a thing that it was sad to leave 
it. 

Three hours later, on the stroke of midnight, 
the vicar re-entered his library. Keziah had 
made a glorious fire : red-hot caverns, blue 
flames, black mountains, were all there ready to 
minister to his fancy, but he never saw them. 
With a drawn face which worked and twitched 
from the force of some powerful emotion, he 
slowly dragged his awkward feet over the thresh- 
old, and sank upon his knees before the writ- 
ing table, bowing his rough head upon his 
clasped hands. 

The caverns and the mountains of the fire 
had sunk — as though they themselves had been 
no better than day-dreams — to gray ashes before 
he moved, and when he lifted his face it was 
wet with tears, but calm, steadfast, and passion- 
less. 

He seated himself before his desk, and taking 
a pen he began to write rapidly ; he filled sheet 
after sheet, but, as soon as he re-read what he 
had written, he was dissatisfied with his work, 
for he tore the paper into fragments and began 
again. The dawn had crept through the chinks 


72 


fcncila — Qi ®rtte Storji. 


of the closed shutters before he relinquished his 
pen. The result of that night’s labor lay within 
an envelope directed in a firm hand to 

“ Miss Yorke, Capel Issa.” 

This envelope was brought to Fenella the 
following morning while she, with her father and 
Bertie, were having breakfast. Such notes were 
of frequent occurrence ; she finished her por- 
ridge and cracked her egg before she opened 
and read it : — 

“ My dearest Fenella,— A circumstance 
has arisen which will prevent our marriage 
taking place at Easter. The circumstance is 
one that it was impossible either to foresee or to 
prevent. My presence is required in a distant 
land to transact a business of urgent importance 
and necessity, upon the immediate performance 
of which the happiness of those most dear to me 
depends. As this is the case, I can not choose 
but hasten to discharge my duty — a duty which 
compels me to leave you for a period of many 
weeks. I have seen your father this morning, 
and have explained my meaning fully to him. 


iFjendla .— % ®rtte Starjj. 


73 


He agrees with my decision. To-day I leave the 
vicarage, to-morrow I set sail from England ; 
I will not bid you good-bye in person, Fenella — 
I could not bear to do so ; nor shall I write to 
you during my absence ; but, God willing, I shall 
return to England in June, at the latest, and 
then you will hear again of one to whom your 
goodness has given the happiness of his life. 
God bless you, dear. 

“ Andrew Pierpoint.” 

Mr. Yorke watched his daughter attentively 
as she read these words. He had lately parted 
from their white-cheeked, haggard-eyed author, 
and now he expected to see a corresponding 
gloom spread over her pretty features. But, no ; 
a smile crept round the corners of her mouth, a 
color rose into her cheeks ; she dropped the 
letter upon the table and looked up eagerly. 

“ You have seen Andrew, father — you know 
he has gone away ; the wedding is put off until 
the summer.” 

“ What ? ” screamed Bertie. “ Gone away ? 
Old Pierpoint ? Has he chucked you over too, 
Ellie ? ” 


74 Icndia— % ®rue Storg. 


The idea of being “chucked over" by Mr. 
Pierpoint amused Fenella ; she burst out laugh- 
ing — a laugh that was nearly a cry, for that too 
of Bertie’s hurt her. 

“You are most heartless, Fenella," said her 
father sternly. “ Pierpoint is a vast deal too good 
for you.” 

“ I know it, father, I know it, ” she cried ; 
“ but Easter is so near, and I should have had 
to leave you both — and everything ; I can’t 
help being glad to stay on a little longer.” 

“You didn’t seem to mind leaving home," 
began Bertie, “ when you were going to marry 
Har— " 

“ Cuthbert, be silent. You are speaking 
with your mouth full, sir.” 

As the weeks rolled by, Fenella became 
ashamed to find how she grudged their depart- 
ure, and how content she was to have a locum 
tenens at the vicarage, and her days to herself. 
Mr. Yorke was very kind to her; they were 
more together than they had been hitherto. 
She often found him watching her anxiously. 
Of what Mr. Pierpoint’s urgent business consist- 
ed Fenella was not told. Her father said that 


ifencUa .— % dime Stotrg. 


75 


for the present it was a secret. Some day she 
should hear every particular. She was content 
to wait. Indeed, she thought very little of her 
lover, and that period of their short engagement 
which they had spent together seemed almost 
like a dream. 

The spring had faded into summer, and 
June, the month of roses, had come, when upon 
one lovely morning, bright with sunshine, gay 
with the singing of birds, and sweet with the 
scent of flowers, Fenella received the following 
note : — 

“ My dearest Fenella : I arrived in Eng- 
land last night, and shall reach home to-morrow. 
Will you, upon the evening after you receive 
this, meet the seven o’clock express? Do not 
go to the station — I have a. particular reason for 
requesting this — but wait at the stile that leads 
to the path across the fields. Do not fail to be 
there, my dear, or you would grieviously disap- 
point one who loves you with a deep and con- 
stant devotion. Andrew Pierpoint.” 

All through that day Fenella was never still. 
She wandered from room to room in the house, 


7 6 Jenella.— 31 ®nte Storji. 


she roamed the garden, she went down to the 
vicarage and cut bunches of the early roses 
blooming in the flower-beds there, with which to 
decorate the rooms in readiness for their return- 
ing master. She tried hard to rejoice over the 
anticipation of the reunion, but she was sick 
at heart. 

How sad and still the summer evening 
seemed, as she reached the trysting-place ap- 
pointed by her lover, and took up her position, 
leaning against the stile in a listless attitude. 
Fenella, only a year ago, had stood in that very 
spot waiting for someone else ; someone who 
had proved himself unworthy even of her 
thoughts, someone who had forgotten her, but 
whom, alas for her ! she could not forget. The 
thrush was calling his name, • the very air 
breathed of him. She heard a distant step upon 
the road, and could have fancied the tread was 
his. Impatient with herself, she turned her face 
to the fields, and leaning her elbows on the top 
rail of the stile she supported her cheek upon 
her hand. Tramp, tramp sounded along the 
road. The alertness of that bounding step was 
familiar. It was — it was (her heart beat fast at 


tftntlia .— & ®rue Storg. 


77 


the fancy) like Harry’s step. Shame ! It was' 
treachery even to remember his name at such a 
moment. She would turn to see the comer — she 
must break this illusion which had set her 
trembling and flushed her pale cheeks. She 
would turn, she must turn. The steps were not 
ten paces distant. Slowly and reluctantly she 
withdrew her arms from their support and 
moved round. If her ears had deceived her, 
then her eyes were traitors too. Close to her, at 
arm’s length merely, stood he who had been her 
first, and who, she knew, would be her last love. 
For a moment they looked at each other, and 
then he was at her side. 

“ At last, Ellie ! ” he cried, catching her hand 
in his, “ at last, my darling ! If you only knew 
how I have longed for you ! ” 

“ You speak to me like that ! ” She drew 
herself away from him, and held up her small 
head high, speaking steadily, and in a cold and 
constrained voice. “ You dare to speak to me 
like that ! I do not know you ; I am waiting for 
my lover, to whom I shall be married soon.” 

Though Fenella’s dignity was strange to 
him, the young man was not awed ; he put his 


78 ireneila.— & ©rue Storg. 


arm round her, and drowned her words with 
his kisses. 

“ He is here, Ellie ! your lover to whom you 
will soon be married is here. I am he.” 

“ Let me go ; you do not speak the truth. 
I am going to marry Andrew Pierpoint.” 

“ No, dear, no ; you are going to marry me. 
It was Andrew Pierpoint who sent me to you, 
God bless him ! Don’t cry, my sweet. It’s all 
right. It’s all settled. There, let me dry your 
eyes. If you will give me a chance, I can ex- 
plain everything.” 

“ Then go over to the other side of the stile 
first,” sobbed Fenella. “ I would rather you 
were the other side of the stile.” 

But Mr. Lewis did not fall in with this man- 
date ; he stood before her, and holding both her 
hands in his he told her his tale — not just as I 
have written it, for my space is limited, and I 
must condense the explanations. The superflui- 
ties of his discourse I have omitted, though Fe- 
nella remembered every one of them. 

“ I was awfully down when I left you, Ellie, 
and the only pleasure I got for the first week or 
two was in writing you letters. There wasn’t 


ifrnellci.— Qt ®nte Stern. 


79 


much to write about on board ship, but hardly a 
day passed that I didn’t find something - to dot 
down for your benefit. Before I got to Bombay 
I was rampant for a letter from you. However, 
none arrived. Mail after mail came in — never a 
line from you. I wrote you an awfully sharp 
letter to ask what on earth you meant by your 
silence, but I got no answer. I began to be 
afraid you were ill, dead — I had all sorts of fears 
about you ; and then Madeline wrote and told 
me that she had heard from you, and that you 
seemed very cheerful. I felt pretty mad, I can 
tell you, and when I saw your engagement an- 
nounced in the Universal Post I was desper- 
ate. I went to a party that night and proposed 
to the first woman I met. Luckily she was en- 
gaged to another chap, or I shouldn’t be here. 
None of our fellows knew what was wrong; I 
hadn’t the pluck to tell a soul that I had been 
jilted, so they thought I was off my head, I was 
so precious bad-tempered and disagreeable. I 
had believed in you so thoroughly; you had 
seemed so true and good (as well as such a dar- 
ling), that it nearly broke my heart to think how 
you had hoodwinked and deceived me. One 


8o fzntiia.— & ®rue Storj). 


night when I was, as usual, sulking alone in my 
own quarters, in a mood the reverse of amiable, 
imagine my amazement when the door opened 
and the vicar, Andrew Pierpoint, walked in. 
Ellie, he is a splendid fellow ! how you can care 
for me when you know him is wonderful. He 
had come out tor India to put things straight 
between us. He had left you, giving you up of 
his own free will ; and for fear of delay or re- 
newed misunderstanding he came to me him- 
self. It seemed that he, as a clergyman, had 
been called to see a dying woman, one of his 
parishioners, the postmistress in the village here, 
and had received a confession wrung from her 
by the consciousness of coming death. The 
woman was a widow. She had a son, an only 
child, to whom she was passionately attached. 
He was a wild fellow, harmless enough, but reck- 
less, and an inveterate poacher. At your fa- 
ther’s instigation his movements were carefully 
watched by the keepers, the consequence being 
that he was caught in the coverts with the nets 
and game upon him. He was brought before 
the bench and sent by the magistrates, one of 
whom was your father, for a term of imprison- 


iFendla.— Qt QLxkc 0torg. 


Si 


ment ; a severe sentence, I believe, but one 
which he probably deserved, for he had handled 
the men who apprehended him very roughly. 
His mother, who held her head high and was as 
proud as Lucifer, felt the disgrace acutely, and 
conceived a rabid and unnatural hatred of Mr. 
Yorke, and, through him, for you all. The chief 
thought of her life was how to revenge herself 
upon you. The anticipation of sorrow for any 
of your family became her delight. When I left 
you, revenge seemed at last in her power. Your 
letters to me, my letters to you, passed through 
her hands; they, at least, should never reach 
their destination. Each letter as it came she 
flung into the fire, and waited eagerly to see what 
trouble would come of her action. It came soon 
enough, wretched woman ; but de 'mortuis nil 
nisi bonwn. She made what amends she could 
by confessing to Mr. Pierpoint what she had 
done.” 

An hour later, the Yorke family and Mr. 
Lewis were seated round the dinner - table. 
Dinner was over, and the two men were talking 
seriously and with animation over the past 
months, and about the coming wedding. Fe- 
6 


82 


iTenella. — 31 &rtte Storg. 


nella was pensive and subdued, but her eyes were 
bright with a light that had not shone from 
them for many a long month. 

“ I tell you what,” Bertie broke in upon his 
father’s discourse, “ I should like half a glass 
of lemonade, dad, to drink old Pierpoint’s 
health and happiness.” 

“ Poor old Pierpoint ! ” said the happy lover 
with a sober smile. 

“Health and happiness to him,” said Mr. 
Yorke; “and he will have it too — mark my 
words ; such a heart as his is a bank from which 
stores of health and happiness can be drawn 
ad libitum .” 



WHAT HAPPENED 
AT RIDGEWAY-ON-SEA. 


PART I. 

“ Constant love is moderate ever, 

And through life it will persever. ” — Anon. 

An unkind fate had determined that Captain 
Haste should not accompany his wife and little 
girls to the sea. It was not the first time that 
fate — in the guise of importunate friends — had 
prevented his joining in this annual summer 
outing. These friends would at this inconven- 
ient season urge him to fulfil some almost for- 
gotten engagement. He had promised to shoot 
on a Scotch moor or cruise round the coast in a 
brother-officer’s yacht, and “ how on earth was 
he to get out of it ? ” 

There was certainly a fatality against his 
visiting the seaside in August. To do him jus- 
tice, he bore the deprivation heroically ; nor did 


8 4 


ittljat fyawzntb 


young Mrs. Haste repine, but she smiled rather 
wickedly as she said “ how sorry she was for 
his disappointment ; how she hoped he might 
come to them for the last week of the visit, but 
that she feared from what he said, it would be 
quite impossible.” 

“ I will leave it open, Edith,” he answered, 
and then, catching her eye, he broke out into 
constrained laughter, in which she joined very 
heartily. 

“ Ah, Harry ! you are not a good actor,” she 
said ; “ you don’t take me in ; don’t fancy it. 
Seaside lodgings and seaside lodging cooking 
are no trial to me, but you would rather face a 
cannon ball than face Ridgeway-on-Sea. I for- 
give you ; you shall not be victimised. You 
shall go to Scotland ; and, now I come to think 
of it, I shall be glad to get rid of you, for I have 
promised Hortense a holiday, so the children 
will be on my hands.” 

Hortense was nurse to the two little daugh- 
ters of the house. She was a capable, energetic 
Frenchwoman, the factotum of the household, 
the mainstay of the establishment. She had 
lived with Mrs. Haste ever since her marriage, 


at HUbgemaji-on-Sea. 


85 


and was her right hand. Captain Haste, when 
he heard that this prop of his family required a 
holiday, was dismayed. 

“ What does Hortense want with a holi- 
day? ” he said ; “ her life is all holiday. When- 
ever I go up to the nursery she is sitting by the 
window, and the chicks are playing at the other 
end of the room.” 

“ She is always sewing when she sits there, 
Harry.” 

“ Sewing ? Yes, but sewing is only play to 
a woman. You all hold a bit of that sort of 
stuff in your hands, but nothing else happens. 
It never gets done. Hortense doesn’t want a 
holiday.” 

“ But she does, indeed. Every year since 
she came to us she has asked to go home, and 
this year she is going. It is a long journey to 
Magon ; she will be away a month or more.” 

“ And you are going to look after Bunch and 
Puck single-handed all that time? You infatu- 
ated woman ! ” 

“ The seaside is expensive. I always feel we 
are spending so much — too much money. If I 
am my own nurse, it will be economical.” 


86 




“ Why not ask Nora to go with you ? She 
is very fond of the children ; she will do under- 
nurse and be a companion for you.” 

“ That is an excellent idea of yours. I will 
ask her.” 

And so it happened that Miss Nora Hughes 
(who was Mrs. Haste’s sister) was invited to ac- 
company the party to Ridgeway- on-Sea ; an in- 
vitation which she was pleased to accept. On 
an eaily day in August the quartette travelled, 
in a hot and crowded train, from Leicestershire 
to that fashionable seaside watering-place on 
the southern coast in which they had elected to 
recruit their health in the orthodox (but seldom 
satisfactory) British fashion. The children — 
Dorothy and Olive by name — though known fa- 
miliarly as Bunch and Puck — were an intelligent 
and, therefore, an inquisitive little couple. Their 
excitement was intense; they were each given 
a corner seat by the window, and there they 
knelt, staring out at the flying country as they 
munched dry biscuits, drank milk, and asked in- 
numerable questions, to which their exhausted 
mother or aunt patiently provided answers. 

Nora Hughes was a pretty, sprightly girl, 


at KibgctuaB-on-Sca. 


87 


with a decisive manner and a merry laugh. She 
was one of those unmistakably prosperous, 
bright-lived people whose good spirits are a lit- 
tle fatiguing to those less blessed by fortune 
than themselves. Though her sister, Mrs. 
Haste, was a cheerful, happy woman, her seven 
longer years of life had toned down her vivacity ; 
from matronage and motherhood she had ac- 
quired dignity. Nevertheless, the sisters were 
the best of friends, and were both delighted at 
the prospect of enjoying each other’s society 
tete-a-tete for a time. 

Mrs. Haste had warned Nora that the post 
of nursemaid which she had elected to fill was 
by no means a sinecure, and that long journey 
proved the truth of her caution. Children, as 
travelling companions, are a trial of patience 
from which the most genuine child-lover sel- 
dom emerges scatheless ; the mother and aunt 
before Ridgeway - on - Sea was reached, p were 
flushed, dishevelled, irritable, and thinking re- 
gretfully of the absent Hortense. 

The baby, Puck, of three, was a dignified 
little lady, with great black-lashed blue eyes, a 
pale, thoughtful face, and a self-reliant air ; but 


88 


toljat ^append* 


she had an inquiring mind and a persevering 
thirst for knowledge which was quenchless. 
Her shrill voice was seldom silent ; to Nora all 
her questions were directed, while Bunch, upon 
the opposite seat, kept her mother’s attention 
fully alive. Shortly before they reached their 
destination Puck yawned once or twice, and re- 
marking that she was “ drefful tired,” clambered 
upon her aunt’s knee, and, with an incomplete 
question on her lips, fell asleep. 

When the station was reached, neither the 
stopping of the train nor the noise and tumult 
of the arrival roused the little girl from her 
heavy slumber. 

“ There is no need to wake her, Edie,” said 
the younger lady, who was in the habit of in- 
dulging her faculty of decision, and who had 
taken the command of the party as a matter of 
course. “ If you give the things to the porter 
and take care of Bunch, I will carry Puck.” 

She had gathered the sleeping child into her 
arms, and presently alighted carefully upon the 
platform with her burden. 

“ Leave Bunch with me, Edie, while you go 
and see after the luggage and get a cab,” she 


at tlibgeumjj-an-Sea. 


89 


went on, with what her brother-in-law called 
her “ commander-in-chief air.” “ Here, Bunch, 
catch hold of my dress ; you can’t go with 
mother. Stay here.” 

Bunch was impressed by her aunt’s impera- 
tive manner, and obeyed, but when Mrs. Haste 
was seen, in a stream of strange fellow-travel- 
lers, disappearing in the distance, the poor child 
broke away from Nora’s side, and fled among 
the hurrying throng of people in pursuit of her 
mother. A passing truck of luggage covered 
her retreat, and before Nora could catch her, she 
was engulfed by the crowd. Happily at that 
moment the girl caught sight of a familiar face 
beside her, and addressed the gentleman to 
whom it belonged without ceremony. 

“ A little child — alone — in pink — white hat — 
of five,” she said breathlessly, pointing to the 
crowd in which the child had disappeared. 
“ Fetch her — bring her back — she will be 
killed ! ” 

“ Oh, no, she won’t,” he said ; “ I see her. 
I’ll catch her.” 

And he threaded his way dexterously through 
the groups of travellers, and did so. Nora 


9 o 




caught sight of him stooping over the little girl 
and talking to her, and a later glimpse of the 
pair, hand-in-hand, on the track of Mrs. Haste, 
to whom Bunch was pointing. Doubtless 
Bunch, who was by no means shy, had ex- 
plained the object of her flight to the gentleman, 
and he had good-naturedly, if weakly, complied 
with her wishes. 

At any rate, the child was in safety, and 
Nora sank down on an adjacent bench with 
Puck, still sleeping, in her arms, and an exas- 
perated desire to whip someone. 

The meeting between this gentleman and 
herself was one of those untoward coincidences 
which are as undesirable as they are unex- 
pected. The previous week she had parted 
from him in her own drawing-room in Cromwell 
Place with an (unexpressed) determination 
never, if she could help it, to see him again. It 
was not that she particularly disliked Mr. Mac- 
leod, but then she did not particularly like him, 
and she did particularly like the untroubled, un- 
shackled life which she enjoyed as Miss Nora 
Hughes. He was a quiet, reserved Scotchman, 
whose business in the city had not prevented 


at HibgettW|}-0n~0ea. 


91 


him from availing himself of every opportunity 
of meeting her during many past months, and 
whose light blue eyes could express a deeper 
emotion than that of shrewdness. 

Everything was certainly against her, for she 
had decided never to speak nor to see him 
again, and now there he came, still hand-in-hand 
with her niece, and squiring her sister down the 
platform, while behind them a truck-load of lug- 
gage was propelled by a porter. Nora squeezed 
Puck so tightly in her vexation that the little 
girl awoke. 

Mr. Macleod was thinking that Nora with 
flushed cheeks, stormy eyes, and with a beauti- 
ful child in her arms, was a picture such as an 
artist might well waste a lifetime in endeavoring 
to transmit to canvas, while Nora wondered 
what perverse circumstance had brought the 
gentleman to Ridgeway-on-Sea, and how long 
he intended to stay there. But as we do not 
live in a palace of truth, and as our thoughts 
are seldom expressed in words, she said, with 
much politeness, “ How fortunate she had been 
to find him in the recent emergency ; how kind 
it was of him to have taken care of Bunch ; and 


9 2 


^appencb 


might she introduce him to her sister, Mrs. 
Haste ? ” 

“I met Mr. Macleod when I was staying 
with you in the winter, Nora,” said Edie, smiling 
with gratitude upon that gentleman ; “ so he 
tells me, though I was rude enough not to rec- 
ognize Bunch’s new friend for the first moment. 
Won’t you put Puck down now ? She is very 
heavy, and you look so hot. Mr. Macleod says 
that the Middleton omnibus will take us to our 
rooms ; our luggage is overmuch for a cab ; he 
is going in the omnibus himself. He rescued 
my small portmanteau from the very clutches of 
an old gentleman ; I am so much obliged to him.” 

Mrs. Haste, it was evident to Nora, had 
taken a fancy to Mr. Macleod ; she was pleased 
to be most gracious to him. Bunch’s attentions 
to him were a little overwhelming, but he did 
not rebuff her advances, and he even accepted 
and pocketed the finger biscuit which she of- 
fered him, In the bustle of starting and the 
subsequent drive, Nora’s constraint of manner 
escaped notice ; she devoted her attention and 
conversation to the children, but she kept her 
ears open to the following dialogue. 


at Eibgctoap-an-Sea. 


93 


“ Do you know this place well ? ” asked Mrs. 
Haste. 

“ I have never been here before.” 

“ I am sure you will like it ; that is, if you 
care for the sea.” 

“ Well, I do not care for the sea”; then, in 
answer to an interrogative uplifting of the lady's 
eyebrows, “ I have come down to play cricket — 
the cricket week begins to-morrow.” 

“ We shall come up to the ground, I hope. 
We are both fond of watching cricket.” 

“I know that your sister is a constant at- 
tendant at Lord’s,” said Mr. Macleod, looking at 
Nora, “ but I don’t think that she watches the 
cricket much when she is there.” 

Mrs. Haste laughed, but Nora did not ; she 
wondered that Mr. Macleod, under the circum- 
stances, should care to include her in the con- 
versation, and she thought his bantering tone 
out of place. 

“ I hope you will come up to-morrow,” the 
gentleman continued. “We play the Zingari ; 
it is a three days’ match. You know where the 
ground is, no doubt, better than I do myself.” 

“ It is not far from the station, on the cliff ; 


94 


ttlljat tyapptncb 


it stands high and is so pretty, but the railway 
runs close by and the trains are very noisy. 
Here we are ; this is the house. No. 8 Marine 
Parade. I suppose it is no use asking you to 
come in to tea one afternoon, because, of course, 
you won’t draw stumps till late.” 

“ Indeed, it is a great deal of use,” he an- 
swered, smiling. “ If I like the place I shall 
stay on for a time, and I shall certainly,” with a 
steady glance at Nora, “come in to tea if I 
may.” 

Then the omnibus stopped, and the ladies’ 
attention was absorbed by the care of the chil- 
dren, while Mr. Macleod superintended the re- 
moval of the luggage. 

“ Mr. Macleod seems a very nice man,” Mrs. 
Haste observed to her sister that evening when 
the little ones were in bed and asleep, and their 
mother and aunt, very pale and tired, were en- 
joying a well-earned rest by the open window ; 
“ he managed Bunch so well ; and had it not 
been for him I should have lost Harry’s little 
portmanteau. He cleaved a road through the 
crowd in a moment, while I was wedged be- 
tween a post and a dozen sailors, and couldn’t 


at &ibgetoa2~0ti~0£a. 


95 


move. The British are the most uncourteous 
people in the world ; they yield to physical 
strength, but appeal only to their feelings and 
they are hard as nails.” 

The window by which Edith and Nora were 
seated overlooked the esplanade, and com- 
manded a wide sea view. Up and down this es- 
planade, men, women, lads, and lassies were pa- 
trolling, while in the distance a band was play- 
ing, and the sea was dotted with boats in which 
people were idly rowing about in the moonlight ; 
the free, open-air, lazy, seductive summer sea- 
side life was in full swing. 

“ Mr. Macleod was very kind,” said Nora 
dryly, “ but why were you so unnecessarily civil, 
Edie ? I could have shaken you when you asked 
him to tea.” 

“ My dear, I asked him to amuse you and to 
please him. I fancied he was a particular friend 
of yours ; indeed, when I was staying with you 
in the winter, I remember that I fancied all 
kinds of things. Surely you don’t dislike him ? ” 

“ Sometimes I dislike him particularly. Just 
now I hate him. He had no right to accept 
your invitation ; he had no right to speak to 


9 6 


tOljat $a;p:petttJ& 


me ; he had no right to expect me to go and 
watch him play cricket. I tell you he has asked 
me to marry him ; he asked me to marry him 
only last week — ” 

“ And you said * No ’ ? ” 

“ Of course I said ‘ No.’ ” 

“ I see no * of course ' about it.” 

Mrs. Haste was an advocate for matrimony, 
and she was anxious that Nora, who was her 
only unmarried sister, and who flaunted her in- 
dependence rather aggressively, should find a 
husband ; the girl’s fancy-freedom annoyed her. 

“ Edie, you really are talking nonsense. You 
say that you see no ‘ of course ’ about it ! Then 
I am to marry a man I hate.” 

“ Pshaw ! ” said Mrs. Haste, “ you don’t 
hate him. You liked him very much in the win- 
ter ; you were together constantly.” 

“ I suppose you will allow me to be best 
judge of my own feelings,” said Nora, with dig- 
nity. “ I shall not marry anyone simply because 
he is obstinate. Mr. Macleod is as obstinate as 
possible. He has asked me to marry him three 
times, Edie; isn’t such persistency enough to 
make any woman determined ? ” 


at Bii>ptxw£!~0n-0ea. 


97 


As she spoke a tall figure halted below the 
open window where the sisters were seated. 
Their rooms were upon the ground floor, and 
the dining-room bay-window opened right upon 
the esplanade. Mr. Macleod’s face — for he it 
was who stood there — was on a level with the 
window-sill. He was looking up at Nora, upon 
whose pretty face the moonlight fell, and the 
sharp lines of which it softened, but he spoke to 
the elder sister. 

“Won’t you come out, Mrs. Haste?" he 
said. “ It is such a glorious night, and the 
breeze is cool out here." 

It was Nora who answered with brisk decis- 
ion — 

“ We can not leave the children ; they might 
wake up and be frightened ; we have no 
nurse." 

“Then', perhaps, as you can’t come out, I 
may come in ? ” 

“ Certainly you may," Mrs. Haste said 
sweetly; “and don’t put out your pipe, because 
both Nora and I like the smell of smoke." 

A moment later, when he entered the room, 
Mrs. Haste was laughing, and Nora was stand- 


7 


9 8 


lUljat fjappeiufc 


in g by the window playing with the tassel of the 
blind, and looking rather sulky. 


PART II. 

“ So, every sweet with sour is tempered still, 

That maketh it be coveted the more : 

For easy things that may be got at will 
Most sorts of men do set but little store.” 

Edmund Spenser. 

That evening which Mr. Macleod spent in 
talking to Mrs. Haste, while he watched her 
sister, was the first of many evenings which he 
spent at No. 8 Marine Parade. As it seemed 
that he had forgotten those three occasions 
upon which his opinions had so widely and em- 
phatically differed from Nora’s, the girl decided 
that she, too, might cast their memory away, 
and avail herself of his friendship once more. 
A seaside life to be thoroughly enjoyed should 
be shared with genial companions, and neither 
Mrs. Haste nor Miss Hughes had any friend at 
Ridge way-on-Sea. The care of the children, 
the bathing, boating, and paddling, filled the 
days, but when the quiet evenings came it was 


at libg£uja2-0n-0£a. 


99 


a pleasant change if a friend dropped in with 
some fresh ideas against which to rub your 
own, and a full account of a cricket match to 
detail, and perhaps a basket of flowers, such as 
you particularly love, to adorn your bare room. 
Mr. Macleod’s society was certainly agreeable 
to Mrs. Haste, so Nora consented to bear the 
infliction uncomplainingly. 

When the cricket week was over, Mr. Mac- 
leod still remained at Ridgeway-on-Sea. He 
had taken a fancy to the place, he said ; he 
should get plenty of cricket off and on, and the 
air suited him, so he decided to remain. 

Then followed a good time for the children, 
to whom he devoted himself. His pockets con- 
tained an unlimited store of pennies, his pa- 
tience was inexhaustible, he had an architectural 
genius for building sand castles, and the eye of 
a hawk for the discovery of shells, sea anem- 
ones, and crabs on the rocks. When it was 
particularly hot, that was the very occasion on 
which be begged to be allowed to take out the 
Miss Hastes for exercise in a goat-carriage, and 
advised their mother and aunt to stay quietly at 
home until after tea. Such welcome advice was 


TOO 


totyat 43)apjjenel> 


not declined : its wisdom was obvious : the 
ladies sat at home, and they thought and spoke 
kindly of Mr. Macleod during his absence. 
They watched the trio out of sight. Mrs. Haste 
said it was a pretty picture to see the tall man 
sauntering along the esplanade with one little 
white dancing maiden holding to his finger, and 
Bunch, dignified and independent, following se- 
dately a yard or two behind. He adapted his 
paces to those of his companions, and looked 
quite good-humored and content. His straw 
hat, bound with the club ribbon, was tilted over 
his eyes. Suddenly he turned round and dis- 
covered both the ladies leaning out of the win- 
dow gazing after him. He took off his hat, and 
Mrs. Haste waved her hand in response, but 
Nora jumped back out of sight and blushed. 

“ Do you know, my dear,” said Edith, “ that 
I think you are a goose. Marriageable maidens, 
as a class, are the least wise in the world, but 
you really excel your compeers in want of wis- 
dom. There,” pointing through the open win- 
dow in the direction of the departing flannel- 
clad figure, “ what more do you want? What 
on earth can you be waiting for ? What can 


at &ibgetxm2-0tt~0£a. 


IOI 


you find to reject in that constant and unselfish 
man ? I have watched him carefully, I have 
watched him critically — he will make a good 
husband ; he has excellent, durable, every-day 
virtues. Nora, if you deliberately throw away 
such a chance, you deserve to be an old maid, 
you do, indeed.” 

Nora was leaning back in the recesses of the 
armchair into which she had sunk. She was 
looking very pretty, the white dress that she 
wore suited her fair face ; she was staring with 
a rather worried, puzzled expression at the 
speaker. 

“ An old maid,” she repeated thoughtfully. 
“ Do you know, Edie, one might have a worse 
fate than that. If I don’t marry, I shall have 
enough money to make me fairly comfortable. 
I shall keep several dogs and a canary ; I shall 
stay about with all you sisters of mine a good 
deal. I shall do exactly what I like to do— al- 
ways. I shall,” with a sweeping gesture of 
her arm, “ be free as air.” 

“Then be an old maid,” said Mrs. Haste, 
with terrible severity, “ and see how you appre- 
ciate your liberty with a dozen dogs and a 


102 


tl31 )cit fjajjpeneb 


canary ; but I warn you that a woman must be 
slave to something or somebody, and you will 
sink into servitude to your dogs, birds, cranks, 
and absurdities.” 

“Now, Edie, you are exaggerating. Some 
old maids are slaves to no one ; they are the 
sweetest, most self-sacrificing, most lovable race 
I know.” 

“ Yes, my dear ; but those whom you de- 
scribe are slaves , and to their neighbors, and 
you are not half amiable enough to be one of 
that sweet spinsterhood ; you would be unbear- 
able. You want a legitimate director — without 
one, you will grow dictatorial : in fact, you are 
dictatorial now.” 

Nora made a grimace. “ If you think you 
can scold me into marrying anyone, Edie, you 
will find you are wrong.” 

“ * It is dogged as does it,’ ” quoted Mrs. 
Haste maliciously ; and then, with a sud- 
den change of manner, she went over to her 
sister’s side, and laid her hand gently on her 
shoulder. 

“ Is there anyone else, dear ? ” she asked 
very tenderly, and in subdued tones. But to 


at HibQctoaB-on-Sea. 


103 


this alteration of mood Nora did not respond ; 
she replied prosaically — 

“ Well, there is — and there isn’t. I mean 
there is nothing definite. You remember Mr. 
Eudo Le Strange, don’t you, Edie ? ” 

" Of course I remember him. I met him at 
your house in the winter.” 

“ He is very handsome, isn’t he*? He has 
beautiful sad eyes, and long straight hair — he 
writes poetry.” 

“ I am a soldier’s wife, so I prefer a close- 
cropped head. He seemed to me an affected 
boy, with a voice artificially pitched in a minor 
key. So he writes poetry, does he? What a 
bore ! ” 

“ A bore ! ” reiterated Nora. “ A bore, did 
you say ? It Is beautiful — the magazines print 
it. I thought you loved poetry, Edith ? ” 

“ Oh, I like reading poetry ; but that is a 
different thing to being condemned to spend 
your life with a poet. He would always be 
in the moon, trying to screw thought to 
rhyme. He would wish you at the Antip- 
odes if you sat in the room with him, and 
if you spoke to him he would not hear what 


104 


tOI)(U ^appeueb 


you said. I would as soon marry a butcher 
as a poet.” 

“ A soldier is a butcher, only he never gets a 
chance now-a-days of plying his trade,” returned 
Nora, incensed. “ And, to be sure, I can not 
imagine Harry writing poetry.” 

“No more can I,” said his wife, breaking 
into laughter at the notion. “ He says a fool 
who reads a book is only excelled in folly by the 
fool who writes it. Poor Harry ! ” 

Then Nora laughed too, so that a truce was 
proclaimed, and the vexed question of Mr. 
Macleod’s matrimonial prospects was allowed to 
drop. 

Mrs. Haste was wise enough to see that her 
interference had no happy effect, so she reverted 
no more to the subject ; although, by her invita- 
tion, Mr. Macleod joined in all their small fes- 
tivities ; his presence was required on all occa- 
sions, and his advice on all subjects was not 
only to be asked, but to be taken. 

The gracious warmth of Mrs. Haste’s man- 
ner was very pleasant to her sister’s lover, but it 
did not deceive him into taking a false estimate 
of Nora’s feelings towards him. As long as Mr. 


at Bibgctuaji-on-Sea. 105 


Macleod allowed no sign of the state of his 
heart to escape him, so long was her friendliness 
easy and unconstrained ; but as soon as a word 
or look of deep meaning reached her, she be- 
came cold, reserved, and on the defensive. His 
patience and determination surprised her chap- 
eron, and rather alarmed her. How would it 
all end ? She was allowing herself to drift with 
the tide, and as long as she might shake herself 
free of the current’s influence when she felt 
inclined to do so, the drifting was agreeable 
enough. 

However, Mr. Macleod could not stay on at 
Ridgeway-on-Sea for ever ; such a state of affairs 
as the present would be over shortly— it would 
be a great relief when he had gone — though 
Edie and the children would miss him : already 
they were commiserating each other over his 
coming departure. When the last week of Mr. 
Macleod’s visit had begun, Nora thought that it 
was likely that her spirits would rise ; and when 
that week had nearly expired, when his last day 
had come, when, upon the morrow, he must 
return to London and business, leaving her “ free 
as air,” Nora unfortunately woke in the morn- 


io6 toljat fjappencb 


ing with a headache, and so it was impossible 
to feel as joyous as she had expected to feel. 

Not once during the past month had Miss 
Hughes attended one of those many cricket 
matches in which Mr. Maclfeod had taken part. 
Over and over again he had done his utmost to 
persuade her to go up to the ground, but she 
had hitherto presented some incontrovertible 
excuse to account for her inability to comply 
with his request. The heat, the children, the 
distance, were alternately used as reasons for 
negation. 

Mr. Macleod was to take leave of the sea on 
Friday. On Wednesday evening it happened 
that he was calling at No. 8 Marine Parade, to 
return a book that had been lent to him by 
Mrs. Haste ; he had dropped in soon after lunch, 
he had made one of their party on the beach 
during the afternoon, he had stayed to tea, and 
now he sat with Bunch on his knee, watching 
Nora spread a piece of bread and butter for the 
little girl’s supper. 

“ It is my last match to-morrow, Miss 
Hughes,” he was saying. “I am playing for 
Single v. Married ; we have a strong team on 


at ftii>gctoa£-0n~Sea. 


107 


both sides ; you like to see good play. Will you 
come ? ” 

There was a moment’s pause, and then she 
answered — 

“ I will come if it isn’t very hot, and if Edie 
would like it." 

Mrs. Haste kissed Puck — who was in her 
arms — gently, and replied : “ She intended to go, 
however hot it might be." 

“That’s right," said Mr. Macleod, with a 
fervent desire that he might be “ in form " next 
day, and do something in the hitting way, such 
as the uneducated female eye can best appre- 
ciate. 

“We shall have divided interests, Mr. Mac- 
leod," Mrs. Haste warned him. “We shall be 
at daggers drawn. Remember, I am all for the 
Married. Both you and Nora are in the ranks 
of the enemy.” 

“ It is not my fault," he said, with a smile on 
his lips but earnestness in his eyes, “ that I am 
at present constrained to side against you. 
Some day — some day — I hope that both your 
sister and I may join your ranks." 

At this juncture, notwithstanding Nora's 


io8 lX)l)at Ijappeiuir 


strenuous efforts to prevent her, Mrs. Haste 
rose, declaring that it was long past the chil- 
dren’s bed-time, and declining any offers of as- 
sistance from their aunt, she took the little girls 
upstairs. Nora’s desire to escape the inevitable 
tete-h-tete was so palpable, her nervousness 
so unconcealed, that there was some excuse for 
Mr. Macleod’s first remark. 

“Don’t be afraid, Miss Hughes,” he said, 
with a friendly smile ; “ I am not going to re- 
open the subject of which you are afraid. Let 
us part on this occasion good friends at least, if 
we can be nothing more.” 

When Mrs. Haste came back, after an un- 
conscionably long absence, she found the two 
young people very merry. Mr. Macleod was 
reading aloud the inimitable “Strap more,” and 
Nora was in paroxysms of laughter. Edith 
thought of Mr. Eudo Le Strange, and wished 
that this young man had been more discriminat- 
ing: if he must read aloud, why had he not 
chosen “ Locksley Hall ” as a fit subject for such 
a contingency as the present ? 

It was on the following morning that Miss 
Hughes accounted for her unusual gravity dur- 


at EiihjnDag-ou-Sea. 


109 


ing the breakfast hour by remarking that “ she 
had a headache, a horrid headache, which made 
her feel quite stupid.” 

“ That is very odd,” said Mrs. Haste : “ I, 
too, woke with an intolerable headache this morn- 
ing. I can hardly open my eyes. There must 
be thunder in the air.” 

And throughout the morning there could be 
no doubt about the severity of her ailment, be- 
cause she lay on the sofa with closed eyes, and 
shuddered when the door banged, and frowned 
when the band played. Nora’s headache was 
much less severe : she took the children out with 
her upon the beach ; she played with them there 
throughout the morning without complaint, and 
when she came back to lunch she was as rosy as 
were her nieces. Mrs. Haste still lay upon the 
sofa ; she had been reading, for an open book 
lay on the table beside her. 

“ She was decidedly better,” she volunteered, 
“ but her head ached still, and she felt that it 
would be wiser to keep quiet.” She was deter- 
mined that Nora should not be kept at home on 
her account, so she had ordered a pony-carriage 
to take Bunch and her aunt to the cricket-field 


I IO 


toljat £japjjenel> 


at four o’clock. Puck should stay in the house 
and play with the new doll, which that charming 
Mr. Macleod had given her, but Bunch, if she 
would promise to be very, very good, should go 
to the match. 

Nora made no objection to this arrangement, 
but she shrugged her shoulders, and looked with 
a mischievous and meaning gleam in her eyes at 
her sister, who, however, did not seem equal to 
noticing either the shrug or the glance, for she 
half shut her eyes, and her face was as expression- 
less as a mask. 

When Nora and Bunch reached the cricket- 
ground Mr. Macleod was bowling (the “ Married ” 
were in), and so no one came to meet and usher 
them to the rows of seats that were set in the 
shade of a wall not far from the entrance gate. 
Nora felt a little unreasonable annoyance with 
the bowler for not being at hand to greet her. 
Little Bunch, in a clean white frock and wide 
white hat, walked demurely close beside her aunt, 
looking with the direct, fearless glance of child- 
hood at the rows of people before whom they 
passed. From amongst these onlookers a young 
man suddenly emerged and addressed Nora. 


at fU&gctDati-on-Sea. 


hi 


“ Macleod told me you were coming,” he said. 
“ I have been looking out for you — I have kept 
you a seat in the shade.” 

In after-times Nora said that she had never 
been more annoyed than at this chance meeting 
with Mr. Eudo Le Strange ; just then, however, 
she concealed her vexation, and smiling, blushed, 
and said how odd it was to have met him, and 
how glad she should be of a seat in the shade — 
to which seat he presently led her. 

Of little Bunch the gentleman took not the 
slightest notice : he had come down to Ridge- 
way-on-Sea on purpose to see Miss Hughes, and 
to Miss Hughes he talked incessantly in those 
deep slow tones which she had been in the habit 
of admiring. Nora had, contrary to her ordinary 
rule, a distinct desire to watch the cricket, and a 
decided interest in the bowler’s success ; but Mr. 
Eudo Le Strange had none, and he naturally ex- 
pected such undivided attention to his conver- 
sation as she had hitherto bestowed upon it. No 
chair had been provided for the little girl : she 
had promised to be good — the promise was 
rather a burden, for it constrained her to stand 
quietly by her aunt’s side, and neither rove nor 


1 1 2 




join uninvited in conversation. When, upon the 
summit of the bank on the further side of the 
ground, a train went roaring past, leaving a long 
trail of smoke behind it as it wound round the 
hill out of sight, Bunch was much interested, and 
turning to Nora, plucked her by the arm. 

“ There’s a lovely, lovely puff train, Auntie.” 

“ Yes, dear — what a horrid noise ! ” 

“ Auntie, may I look at the puff train ? ” 

“ Of course you may.” 

“ May I go over and look close at the puff 
train ? ” 

Mr. Eudo Le Strange was talking of that Art 
which is spelt with a capital A, in his dulcet 
tones, and frowned at this mundane interruption 
of the subject. Nora saw the frown, and hast- 
ened to banish it. 

“ Very well, Bunch ; you may go,” she said. 
“ Come back soon, and keep close to the paling. 
Don’t run out in the field, even if you see Mr. 
Macleod ; you are not allowed to go near him — 
don’t forget.” 

Before the sentence was finished the child 
was out of earshot, and Nora watched her as 
she walked round the field, on her way to the 


at Eibgctuag-on-Sea. 


113 


wooden paling that divided the railroad from the 
cricket-field. 

But by-and-by Nora removed her eyes from 
that small person, and fixed them on the crick- 
eters. The wickets of the enemy were going 
down fast. Mr. Macleod was bowling with great 
success. She thought it would be pleasant to 
watch each ball, but Eudo Le Strange had an 
ingratiating way of asking her opinion on subjects 
of which she knew nothing, but on which her 
opinion seemed of value to him, so she was con- 
strained to talk. Between her interest in the 
game and her impelled attention to conversation, 
the memory of her little niece escaped her. It 
was not until the last wicket had fallen, and 
when, in the interval between the innings, Mr. 
Macleod joined her and inquired for the child, 
that she remembered her. 

“ She went over to watch for a passing train,” 
Nora said, getting up from her seat to get a view 
of the field. “ I saw her just now close to the 
paling. Where can she have gone ? ” 

“ Probably she is among that crowd by the 
entrance gate," suggested Mr. Le Strange ; “ the 
people hide her from sight.” 

8 


tOljat ^ap^cneir 


114 


Nora began to hurry off in the direction he 
indicated, then she hesitated, and glanced back 
at Mr. Macleod, who was steadily staring at the 
railroad. Her eyes followed his — she, too, 
scanned the summit of that high straight bank, 
on which long grass and tall white daisies grew. 
The sight of those marguerite daisies turned 
Nora sick and cold with a sudden fear, for they 
were such as the children loved to gather. As 
she stood still looking along the line, she gave a 
stifled scream, for from behind a group of larches 
which hid the rails for a short space a little white 
figure slowly emerged. It was Bunch, who, en- 
ticed by the waving daisies, had clambered the 
palings, and after filling her hands with flowers, 
was wandering down the line, hopping from 
sleeper to sleeper, and stooping between times to 
pick up the stones at her feet. She was in the 
track of the express — she was at play in the 
rSute of the train which was already signalled, 
and the roar of which was to be heard echoing 
in the hills. 

Mr. Eudo Le Strange was looking at Nora — 
he did not see the figure on the railroad ; he was 
* a little impatient of the fuss, and when both Mr. 


at ftibgetoati-on-Sea. 115 

Macleod and Nora, without speaking a word, 
began to run, breaking their way through the 
people, and tearing across the cricket-ground as 
though they were mad, he did not follow them. 

“ What’s the joke ? ” asked some man at his 
elbow ; “ why on earth is Macleod racing with 
the lady ? ” 

“ It’s no joke that I know of ; they have gone 
to look for the little girl — she has strayed away 
somewhere.” 

Then breathlessly — 

“ Ah ! — he is making for the ” 

“ There is a child on the railroad ! ” a voice 
broke in upon his words. The cry echoed 
through all the crowd around him. 

“ Oh ! God — the train ! ” 

Then there rose a shriek from the woman 
who uttered that cry, as the train whirled round 
the curve of the hill, and rushed upon the un- 
conscious child. Every eye was fixed upon tHfe 
flying figure that, swiftly as a swallow, darted 
up the bank toward her. They saw that he 
was close to her ; he was beside her ; he touched 
her — but they saw no more. The engine-driver 
sounded his whistle, then, in a dense cloud of 


1 1 6 


totjat fjappeneb 


dust and smoke, the train dashed by with a roar 
that drowned the screams of the women, who 
covered their eyes and shuddered. The men 
held their breath to watch ; when the dust and 
smoke cleared away, Mr. Macleod stood on the 
verge of the railroad, holding a little maiden un- 
harmed in his arms. 

“ It is all right ; she isn’t touched — she isn't 
even frightened,” he cried to the girl, who clung, 
with her head bowed upon her hands, to the 
palings below him. 

It was late that night before Mr. Macleod left 
No. 8 Marine Parade, and when he did so, Nora 
accompanied him to the hall door to wish him a 
third farewell, for he was going back to work to- 
morrow, and she found it very hard to part with 
him. Nora was pale, subdued, and gentle ; her 
lover, on the contrary, was radiant, for he had 
won his heart’s desire at last — Nora had con- 
sented to be his wife. 

“ Nora,” he said, “ are you sure it isn’t a 
mistake ? Are you sure it is not gratitude for 
Bunch’s escape ? You know I not only can’t 
write poetry, but I can’t read it.” 

“ That is a great misfortune for you,” she 


at ftibgoDag-on-Sea. 


117 


said, gravely. “ But I think that a beautiful 
action is better than a beautiful thought, after all. 
Perhaps it is gratitude — I don’t know quite what 
it is ; but I am very glad you want to marry 
me." 




A TRUE STORY. 


CHAPTER I. 

In November, some few years ago, I was 
appointed medical officer to the fever hospital 
lately established in a commercial and seaport 
town upon the west coast of England. Shortly 
after my election to the post I took up my abode 
in the doctor’s quarter of that building. The 
work upon which I had entered was monot- 
onous and severe. I was young and active, 
however, and I took great interest in my pro- 
fession. 

Physically tired after a long day’s labor, and 
mentally worn by the anxiety inevitably attend- 
ant upon the serious character of the diseases 
under my care, I went into my small dining- 
room late one evening in the January following 
my appointment, and sat down to dinner — a din- 


Ql QTrue Storj). 


119 

ner which had been awaiting my advent for an 
hour, and which was, in consequence, more than 
ready for the vigorous attack I made upon it. 
But to a member of my craft neither time, nor 
food, nor will is his own, but each is at the call 
of those to the benefit of whom he has devoted 
his life. 

The first edge of my hunger had not been 
blunted before the ever-recurring rap sounded 
on the panel of the door, and that familiar sum- 
mons, “ Please, sir, you’re wanted,” irritated my 
ear. 

“ Who is it ? What is it ? Why on earth 
did you not say that I have this moment sat 
down to dinner ? ” 

“ I did say so, sir, but she took no notice.” 

Of course she didn’t ; who does “ take no- 
tice ” of a doctor’s meal-time, except the doctor 
himself ? 

“ Who is it ? ” 

“ A lady, sir — a youngish lady. She would 
not give her name, nor would she send a mes- 
sage. She asked to see you ; no one else would 
do. She said her business was immediate and 
particular. She is standing in the hall. She 


120 


& &nte 0tort). 


came here in a cab — it is a wet night — a fearful 
wet night — the cab is waiting.” 

There was no doubt with whom were the 
hall-porter’s sympathies — not with my unsatis- 
fied hunger, but with the business “ immediate 
and particular ” of the youngish lady. Man is an 
animal open to influence. I finished my glass 
of sherry, hastily swallowed a biscuit, and rose. 

Along matted passages, between white- 
washed walls, I made my way rapidly, and 
reached the hall, eager to settle the impending 
business, and return to my dinner. 

By the doorway, close to the front door, 
which she held open with one hand, regardless 
of the draught that flickered the lamp above her 
head, or the sleet which drove in through the 
aperture upon her, stood a tall and stately 
woman. 

A dark cloak covered her from neck to 
ankle, a thick veil was drawn closely over her 
face. Though her business was so “ immediate 
and particular,” she did not advance a step to 
meet me — indeed, she rather drew back, and 
until I was at her side and addressed her, she 
did not speak. 


Ql &rtte Storti. 


1 2 I 


“ I am the house physician,” I said. “ I am 
told you wish to see me.” 

Then she spoke, and in a voice which pos- 
sessed the rare charm of low-pitched, rich notes, 
combined with refined intonation. In my pres- 
ent position I came in contact with rough, and I 
came in contact with aggressively refined voices, 
but I seldom heard a voice such as is a distinct- 
ive mark of good-breeding, and which this lady 
possessed in perfection. 

For the first moment I was struck by her 
manner of speaking, the next I was struck by 
the signification of her speech. 

“ I arrived with my brother at the Richmond 
Hotel this afternoon ; he was taken ill. I sent 
for a doctor ; he came half an hour ago. The 
illness is scarlet fever ; he is very ill ; danger- 
ously ill; he must be removed from the hotel 
immediately. The doctor sent me to you. Can 
you receive him ? ” 

Every word she said was slowly and deliber- 
ately uttered, as though she had rehearsed her 
explanation and request until she knew it by 
rote. She held her head up proudly, but her 
eyes were cast upon the floor as she spoke. 


122 


& Sr ue Storg. 


\ 


I answered her to the effect that there would 
be no difficulty about receiving her brother. I 
would order a private room to be prepared, and 
dispatch the hospital ambulance to the Rich- 
mond Hotel. I could arrange everything for his 
reception without a moment’s delay. 

As I was speaking to her she staggered. 
Loosening her hold of the door, she put up her 
hands to her head, and tottered back against the 
wall. She must have fallen had I not caught 
her by the arm, and supported her to an adja- 
cent bench. 

“ I am faint,” she said impatiently. She was 
impatient, I thought, of her own weakness. 
“Get me some water. No, wine. Wine will 
steady me.” 

I fetched her the wine for which she asked 
from my own dinner-table, and when I returned 
with it I found her again standing by the half- 
open door, her left hand grasping the handle. 

She held out her right hand for the glass ; it 
was ungloved, very white, and the fingers 
sparkled with diamonds. It was a beautiful 
hand, but it trembled so much that the wine 
spilled as she raised the glass to her lips. 


Ql ®rue Storg. 


123 


“ I will go to the Richmond myself,” I said, 
“ and personally superintend your brother’s re- 
moval, for you had better stay quietly here for a 
time. You are unnerved. I will send for the 
matron, who will take every care of you. I 
assure you that you are not fit to come.” 

“ I must come.” 

Argument would be wasted upon the deter- 
mination expressed by her low voice. 

“ In that case I will accompany you. ” 

“ Thank you.” 

“ Have you a nurse for your brother ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Is he alone ? ” 

“ The doctor is with him.” 

I left her to give the necessary orders for the 
despatch of the ambulance, and the reception of 
the patient ; meanwhile she entered the cab, and 
when I came back she bid me “ be quick, for 
the love of heaven.” I had not been a minute 
gone. 

As the cab rattled through the narrow 
streets, over stone pavements, the wind howled, 
and the sleet beat against the dirty windows. 
It was a wretched night ! My companion neither 


124 


& nc Storg. 


spoke nor moved ; she neither looked to the 
right hand nor to the left ; she might have been 
hewn in stone, but for her quick, irregular 
breathing. 

I was naturally anxious to learn some par- 
ticulars concerning her brother’s illness, about 
which I presently began to question her. 

“ Has your brother been complaining late- 
ly?" 

“ I have not seen him, until to-day, for a 
week.” 

“ Did he tell you that he felt ill ? ” 

“ He thought he had a cold, he said. His 
throat hurt him. He was not taken ill until we 
reached the hotel.” 

“ Taken ill ! In what way was he taken ill ? ” 

“ He fainted ; he was unconscious for a long 
while, and when he got better he was not him- 
self.” 

“ You mean he wandered ; possibly he did 
not know you.” 

“ He knew me,” her voice broke for the first 
time ; “ but he was not himself.” 

“ Is your brother older or younger than 
you ? ” 


Qi &rtte Star^. 


I2 5 


“ He is thirty-two.” 

That was older, I concluded ; older by four 
years, possibly more. Her fine profile, shadowed 
by her veil, was dimly outlined against the light 
that shone from the shop-windows, and from 
the street lamps ; she held her head with an air 
of defiance that the lines of anguish about her 
mouth contradicted. Her manner was so re- 
served and repressive that I postponed my ex- 
amination, and we reached our destination in 
silence. Still silent she preceded me across the 
hall of the hotel and up the staircase, ushering 
me finally into a bedroom upon the second 
floor. 

In the doctor who was standing by the bed- 
side I was pleased to recognise a personal friend 
of my own, a clever and experienced practitioner. 

The gravity of his face and demeanor 
warned me at once of the serious nature of the 
case, which my examination of the patient only 
too sadly justified. Of that malignant poison 
which we call scarlet fever he had imbibed so 
strong a dose that he was already prostrate ; 
humanly speaking his hours were numbered, he 
was past hope, he was death-struck. 


126 


Qi &n« 


The lady, who had removed her hat and 
veil, leaned over the young man, holding his 
hand in hers ; her face, voice, and manner were 
metamorphosed, they alike expressed a gentle, 
tender, almpst maternal solicitude. 

“ Don’t come too near me, Ursula,” the poor 
fellow said in a voice which was already weak 
and hollow ; “ you must be careful, it is so in- 
fectious ; you mustn’t get it.” 

She bent down so low that her lips touched 
his forehead, and murmured some soft words at 
which he faintly smiled, then, closing his eyes, 
he seemed to sleep. 

I was well used to sights of sorrow and suf- 
fering, but my heart ached as I watched those 
two. Very soon I must insert the edge of the 
wedge of impending calamity. There would be 
no long days of waiting and uncertainty, nothing 
to numb the poor woman's acuteness of feeling. 
She must be warned of the approaching trouble, 
and I was the person who must warn her. I 
hated, I dreaded the task. 

The man was young, handsome, apparently 
rich in this world’s goods — rich, too, in affection, 
for his beautiful sister never removed her eyes 


Ql &rue Stem 


127 


from his face ; she watched each flicker of his 
eyelids, and listened to each breath he drew. 

With great care and every possible precau- 
tion, the removal of the patient was effected, 
Dr. Percival and myself accompanying the am- 
bulance, in attendance upon him. The lady 
remained behind to transact the necessary busi- 
ness. Though she had no maid with her, she 
negatived all offers of assistance, resuming her 
unapproachable manner as soon as she left her 
brother’s side, and intimating that my attempts 
to save her trouble were superfluous. She 
evidently preferred to manage her affairs for 
herself and by herself ; when their arrange- 
ment was effected she would follow us to the 
fever hospital. 

The feeling of momentary relief with which 
I parted from her was overshadowed by appre- 
hensions of the next time we should meet, when 
those lines of pain must be retraced which had 
faded and vanished in the presence of her 
brother. 

An hour later that time arrived. A message 
to tell me that “ the gentleman’s sister had 
arrived ” was brought to the sick-room, where 


128 


% ®nte Storg. 


I, assisted by Dr. Percival and two of our nurses, 
was fighting out, minute by minute, breath by 
breath, a hard battle with a grim enemy who 
lurked continually within our walls. 

And now this enemy, do what we would, 
fight as we fought, with every resource which 
science, money, talent, could suggest and supply, 
steadily and relentlessly advanced. Still with 
courage and unrelaxed effort we fought on. 

The patient had strength, youth, desire of 
life on his side ; alas ! these, too, are powerless 
weapons against the inexorable foe. He lay, 
supported on pillows, gasping his young life 
away in quick, short sighs. But for the expres- 
sion of his fevered, shining eyes, that peculiar 
look of distress so dreaded by and so familiar to 
us and to our nurses, his face showed no sign 
of disease, it was singularly handsome and pre- 
possessing. He was neither unconcious nor 
delirious, but he was lethargic. Now and then 
he roused himself to murmur “Thank you "to 
one of the attendants, or to ask wistfully, 
“ Where is Ursula ? ” 

After a consultation I withdrew from the 
sick-room. 


& ®rne Storji. 


129 


Upon the threshold I encountered the sister. 
Her air of defiance was more marked than 
before ; the matron of the hospital was standing 
beside her talking in a low voice. 

“ I could not allow the lady to go into No. 
18 until she saw you; it is against the rules,” 
the matron began apologetically. “ In an insti- 
tution like ours rules can not be infringed. We 
must be particular. She will not understand.” 

“May I not go in now?” the lady asked 
me ; her voice had grown hard and rough, and 
the change, I thought, betrayed a great and 
controlled anxiety. 

“ I must speak to you first, if you please. 
There are one or two matters about which I am 
constrained to consult you. We must not talk 
in your brother’s room, as you will readily 
understand.” 

“My sitting-room is vacant, and at your 
disposal,” said the matron. “Pray take the 
lady in there.” 

She shook her head ; her veil was still drawn 
down, but through it I could see the extreme 
pallor of her cheeks. 

“ We can talk here,” she said. “ If you are 


9 


130 


% ue Storg. 


cold,” addressing me, “ we can walk up and 
down this passage.” 

The passage ran the whole length of that 
wing of the building, its walls were white- 
washed, its floors matted. It ended in a window 
of stained glass, at the base of which stood a 
bench. Thither we slowly paced. I concluded 
that she wished to be rid of the matron, so I led 
her there. She was still enveloped in her cloak, 
her hands were tightly clasped in one another. 

“ I must not disguise the fact that your 
brother’s condition is a most critical one,” I 
began ; a nervous distaste for my task made me 
abrupt. “ He has had fever, a virulent and 
malignant form of scarlet fever, on him for 
days; he is knocked down; the prostration is 
excessive. I think that if you have any relative 
for whom you may wish to send, you should do 
so without delay.” 

She caught me by the hand as I spoke ; I felt 
her pulses throbbing like those of a captured 
bird ; then she let her hand fall beside her, and 
her head lost its defiant bearing and sank upon 
her breast. 

“I have telegraph forms here,” I went on. 


& &rue Stor^. 13 1 


“ It is getting late. There is no time to lose ; 
you should telegraph immediately.” 

“ Is there no hope ? ” 

I took refuge in a forelorn formula. 

“ While there is life there is hope,” I an- 
swered. 

“ Do not deceive me — is he dying ? ” 

“ I trust not.” 

“ What do you fear? Tell me the truth. 
As you value your soul tell me nothing but the 
truth. Is he dying ? ” 

u He is in extreme danger.” 

“ Is he dying ? ” 

“ I fear he is.” 

We had reached the bench below the win- 
dow ; the rain was beating against the panes, 
the wind was rattling the sash. I motioned her 
to sit down, but she did not see me do so ; she 
never raised her eyes from the ground. 

“ How long will he live ? ” 

Her control was wonderful ; her calmness 
softened my task. 

“ He may live through the night.” 

“ My God ! ” 

It was a prayer more than a cry that my an- 


132 


& dTrue Storg. 


swer wrung from her. It was like the prayer 
of a creature under the knife, a prayer bom 
of physical pain. She stood so long motion- 
less and silent that I, cruel as it seemed, felt 
obliged to warn her that time was passing, 
and to remind her that I must return to her 
brother. 

“He has asked for Ursula several times,” I 
added, wishing to rouse her. “ You are Ursula 
— are you not ? ” 

She did not answer me ; her lips were so 
strained that they showed her teeth ; her face 
alarmed me. 

“Your brother has asked for you,” I said 
more loudly ; “ you must come to him.” 

“ I can not — I must not — I dare not go to 
him now ! He is dying. I am not fit to go to 
him. You do not understand. I could not 
speak the truth. He is not my brother. I left 
my home with him this morning. I left my 
husband and my little son and my good name 
for him — I left them all for him. I have loved 
him all my life.” 

She spoke in a whisper — not purposely, I 
think, but because she could not control her 


21 &rne Storir 


i33 


voice. I avoided looking at her. I was think- 
ing, in great perplexity, as to what course to 
pursue, when she went on speaking. 

“ No one knows what I have done, sir ; no 
one could know as yet. He has a mother — she 
is a good woman — she must never hear of me. 
He is very fond of her. Will you send for her? 
I will write the telegram. You must swear that 
she shall never hear of me ; it would kill her 
too.” 

I fetched the telegram form. I was glad to 
get away that I might collect my scattered wits. 
When I returned she knelt down before the 
bench, and, using it as a desk, wrote the tele- 
gram in pencil. At first she could not control 
her trembling hand. She grasped her right 
wrist with her left hand, and so steadied her 
quivering muscles. When it was written she 
rose to her feet and handed the telegram to 
me. 

“ He is conscious, you said ? ” 

“Quite conscious.” 

“ Have you a chaplain ? * 

“ Yes, I have already sent for him ; by this 
time he is there.” 


134 


21 Glxkc Stors* 


She was crying now. Tears were filtering 
through her veil and dropping fast upon the 
bosom of her cloak. 

“ Tell him if he asks for me again, that I am 
close to him, that I am praying on my knees for 
him. Do not say I dare not pray, because he 
used to know me years ago when I was a little 
child and good.” 

I turned to go. She walked behind me all 
the way in silence. As I reached the door of 
No. 1 8 she spoke again. 

“ May I wait here ? ” she asked. “ I shall 
be quite quiet. If he is unconscious I can come 
to him. If he should seem to want me I will 

come No, no, he will not, he must not 

want me now. I will not come.” 

She was so proud and stately a woman that 
her humility was painful to witness. I was glad 
when the door shut between us. 

All through that night the battle between 
life and death went on. It was a hopeless, 
stubborn fight ; but not until the dawn began to 
creep through the drawn blind and dim the 
light of the candles did we own to our defeat, 
for then the lamp of life, the lusty flame of 


& &nxe Stoqi. 


*35 

which had been shattered with such awful pre- 
cipitation, flickered and went out. 

All through that night the miserable woman 
had stood waiting upon the threshold of her 
lover’s room ; I had, from time to time, gone to 
her and spoken a few words with bated breath, 
to which she listened in silence. Presently I 
went out for the last time. 

“ You may come now,” I said gently. 

“ He is dead ? ” 

“Yes.” 

And I led her into the room. We left her 
there alone. 

Three hours later I was having breakfast. 
My tub and a cup of coffee had combined in 
reviving me ; the first tragic impression of that 
night’s event was beginning to fade. I had 
been considerably touched by the occurrence, so 
much so, indeed, that I had foregone my din- 
ner ; but the routine of my daily life was unaf- 
fected by it, and therefore, when the first shock 
had passed, I recovered my spirits and my ap- 
petite. 

Our chaplain was a good, earnest fellow, but 


1 3 6 


Starn. 


of the Jeremiah type ; so when he came into my 
room, and stood on my rug with his eyes on the 
fire and groaned, I knew on what subject he 
was about to converse. 

“ Yours is an unsatisfactory profession, Rob- 
erts,” I said, to drown his sigh. “ Mine is kill 
or cure ; but you will not know until an occasion 
somewhat vaguely dated the effect of your treat- 
ment.” 

“ She has gone,” he said, ignoring my obser- 
vation. “ I have seen her into the train myself. 
Heaven help her, poor soul! She is a fallen 
angel, and I — I am at best but an aspiring child 
of Satan. Who am I that I should judge her ? ” 

“ Poor woman ! ” I answered prosaically. 
“ It is a terrible shock for her. Where has she 
gone ? ” 

“ She has returned to her home.” 

My muttered ejaculation did not please him. 

“ I had the greatest difficulty in persuading 
her to pursue what was, for obvious reasons, the 
best and wisest course. No one knew of her 
flight ; her husband is in America, and will not 
return for some time. She has one child— a 
boy, to whom I fancy she is much attached ; the 


21 ®rne Storm 


137 


thought of him helped her, no doubt, to her final 
decision.” 

“ It is a most miserable business,” I said 
shortly ; “ but I do not think she ought to have 
gone home.” 

I was cold because the chaplain was over- 
warm. He looked at me reproachfully. 

“ Why pretend to less feeling than you pos- 
sess ? ” he said slowly. “ That is little enough, 
Heaven knows, though more than is owned by 
some members of your calling.” 

He groaned again, and then he left the room. 


CHAPTER II. 

Eight busy years had rolled by. I had long 
since quitted my post at the Leadenpool Fever 
Hospital, and had settled down as a married 
man in a London suburb. 

In the summer of 1888 I was assured both 
by my wife and my household that I was over- 
worked, and that I required a change. My 
wife said, .with the candor which distinguishes 
her: 


& $rite Storg. 


138 


“ You have grown so very stupid and irritable 
that I am sure you are overdone.” 

To be told you are overdone — not in the 
beefsteak acceptation of the word — is in itself a 
gratifying accusation ; it implies so much. 

I assented to my wife’s proposition with 
small reluctance; the prospect of being gently 
underdone by a period of rest was pleasant ; and 
so I accepted a cordial and running invitation to 
stay with the sometime chaplain of the fever 
hospital, now married, and the Vicar of a village 
in an eastern county. The living with which he 
had, somewhat unexpectedly, been presented 
was a rich one, and he, judging by his letters — I 
had not seen him — accounted himself a fortunate 
man, and found no cause to indulge any Jeremiah 
tendency. 

In due course I arrived at the Vicarage 
and received that pleasant form of flattery— a 
hearty welcome. The Vicar’s wife, a spirited 
and emphatic person, entertained me during 
the afternoon and her husband’s unavoidable 
absence. 

The time of the year was summer, the month 
July. After tea I looked out upon the roses and 


& ®rtte 0 tort). 


139 


carnations, upon the flower-beds and hay-fields, 
and suggested that if my hostess would excuse 
me, I should like to go out. 

She excused me I saw with some relief, for it 
was the hour dedicated to the son of the house, 
whom she was recklessly allowing to invade the 
sugar-basin and handle choice pieces of forbid- 
den china as the only means of keeping him 
quiet in the presence of a stranger. 

“ If you keep to the left, Mr. Brown,” she 
said, wrestling with her boy for a lump of sugar, 
and yielding to the scream with which he em- 
phasised his struggle— “ if you keep to the left 
you will meet my husband ; he has gone to a 
farmhouse in that direction, and should be back 
soon.” 

I walked for some considerable distance, but 
except for a stray laborer, who wended his way 
villagewards, I met with no one. The Vicar had 
no doubt returned by one of those narrow lanes 
which intersected the main road here and there. 
The anticipation of my dinner began to intrude 
itself so persistently upon me that I drew out 
my watch and learned by it that the time 
dangerously approached that of the dinner-hour. 


140 


& ®rtte Stare. 


I turned immediately, and found myself face to 
face — but with whom ? 

That tall and stately figure, that long, slow 
step, the proud turn of the head, the lines of 
pain about the mouth, the sadness of the deep 
gray eyes, were all alike familiar. The lady who 
approached me, and who possessed those attri- 
butes, was no stranger ; I had seen her before. 
I recognised her, I had known her — but where ? 
How ? In a dream ? 

She swept me from head to foot with one 
keen glance, and then she cast her eyes upon 
the ground and passed me. Where? How? 
When had I seen her ? Before I had time to 
answer one of these questions she was rapidly 
lengthening, by her quickened paces, thq distance 
between us. 

My wife had assured me that I was over- 
done ; here was a proof of the wisdom of her 
conclusion : I had experienced that peculiar sen- 
sation of pre-knowledge which some accept as 
confirmation of the doctrine of transmigration of 
souls, and others — of whom I am one — interpret 
as the sign of a fagged brain or disordered 
digestion. 


% ®rue Storg. 141 


Was it possible that I, a stranger in a strange 
country, could claim a prior acquaintance with 
this lady, to whom I could assign no name and 
no definite place in my memory ? The fancy 
was absurd ; I was the victim of a mild hal- 
lucination. This thought was an unpleasant 
one, and I dismissed it, but the face of the 
lady — a sad and beautiful face it was — haunted 
me. 

I reached the Vicarage in time for dinner, 
and also in time to meet the Vicar returning 
home from the contrary direction to that in 
which I had been walking. 

“ I went to meet you, Roberts,” I told him ; 
“ your wife told me to keep to the left.” 

“ She meant the right,” he said, with an in- 
dulgent smile ; “ it is such a simple mistake.” 

“ So it is,” I allowed amiably, and we entered 
the house together. 

It is always difficult in a strange place to 
enter with interest into the affairs of your neigh- 
bors ; the conversation of my friend’s wife was 
vigorous, but local, and I found my attention 
straying from the subjects of her discourse dur- 
ing dinner. 


142 


& &nte Stern. 


The intelligent maid who should have waited 
upon us forgot her duties, so absorbed was she 
in listening to her mistress’s tales and observa- 
tions. When her words were dangerously, and 
her opinions too sadly, frank in their expression, 
her husband would make signs of admonition, 
and, looking at the maid, would say “ Prenez 
garde ’’ emphatically. Then would follow a 
blessed silence, during which I got at the veget- 
ables and bread-sauce, and felt happier. 

When dessert was on the table, and the serv- 
ant had lingeringly withdrawn, I recollected my 
encounter with the lady upon the high road, and 
after describing her, I enquired if they could 
guess, from my descripton, who she was. 

“ Of course I can ; she is Mrs. le Mesurier, 
of whom I have already been talking to you," 
said my hostess promptly. “ There are not two 
women like her in the world. Isn’t she beauti- 
ful ? Or, rather, she would be beautiful if she 
were not so spiritless. However, such a hus- 
band as hers would crush the spirit from any 
wife. I believe he is the most despicable char- 
acter conceivable. There is no vice— none — of 
which he is not capable, if not actually guilty. 


& &me Stern. 


143 


He gave my husband this living, so I must not 
abuse him.” 

“ My dear, my dear ! what are you doing, 
then?” 

“ I am telling Mr. Brown the truth, John ; 
there can be no harm in speaking the truth about 
your neighbors. People have blamed Mrs. le 
Mesurier for marrying him, but she was a mere 
child at the time — an orphan, too, without a six- 
pence in the world, a dependent on an uncle or 
some disagreeable relation of that sort. After 
the marriage they lived a very gay life ; she was 
never content in the country unless the house 
was full ; they travelled, too, from time to time. 
From the first Mr. le Mesurier neglected her; 
soon he bullied her ; at one time they quarrelled 
desperately, and I believe there was an idea of a 
separation. But since the child died she has been 
a different woman. She was very fond of the boy, 
I have heard. She is a slave to her husband ; her 
patience is almost apathetic ; it provokes one. She 
is John’s friend ; she nurses his sick people when 
they are ill, and she thinks for them and works 
for them, devoting herself to doing good, and yet 
without apparent interest in anything. She 


144 


% ®rrte Storg. 


rarely comes to see me, and, upon my word, I 
am not sorry that it is so, for I can’t under- 
stand her at all. She is so sad and so good, 
and yet reserved and self - contained to an 
alarming degree. When she looks at my baby 
I am ashamed of Owning him, for her poor 
little boy is dead.” 

At this juncture the door opened, and the 
maid brought in a r^ote, which she handed to her 
master. 

“From Mrs. le ’ Mesurier, sir,” she said. 

“ What is it, Jt^hn ? ” 

“ My dear, it jfs a cheque for Isaac Basten’s 
widow, which Mi s. le Mesurier promised to send 
me before she went away.” 

“ Is she going to-morrow ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ For how long ? ” 

“ Until her ! husband is tired of travelling.” 

The Vicar Ij ad read the note, which he then 
put down openf upon the table. It was close to 
me. My eyes' fell carelessly upon it and caught 
the clearly-wrf'tten signature : 

“‘Yours sincerely, 

\ “Ursula le Mesurier.” 


& &rue Storg. 


MS 


“ Kate,” said her husband briskly, “ Brown 
and I are going to smoke.” 

“ Very well, I shall be off directly. I am only 
waiting to tell Mr. Brown about that boy of the 
Le Mesuriers ; as he is a doctor I am sure the 
story will interest him. The villagers often talk 
to me about the child. He was as beautiful as 
his mother, and everyone was fond of him — even 
his father was gentle to him. Mr. le Mesurier 
had gone for sport to America ; she and the child 
were left here. She was not in good spirits, they 
say. Sometimes she would play all day with her 
boy, and the next she would refuse to see him. 
Then she went away for a day or two, and when 
she returned the child ran to meet her, and she 
screamed to him to go away. The servants 
were there and heard it, but he did not under- 
stand what she meant ; he was only four years 
old, poor baby ! and he clung to her skirts 
— he was frightened. Then she struck him. 
It was the only time she had ever been rough 
with him, for. she was always gentle, and she 
doted on him. The very next week he was 
taken ill ” 

" Kate, I hear baby crying.” 

10 


146 Ql &rue 9 torn. 


We all listened ; not a sound broke the still- 
ness. 

“ It was a corncrake, John. Well, Mr. Brown, 
the child was taken ill, and they tell me no one 
who was in that house can ever forget the awful 
week that followed. Mrs. le Mesurier never left 
him night or day. She never took off her dress, 
nor lay down to sleep, nor sat down to eat for 
seven days and nights. She telegraphed for 
doctor after doctor ; she had prayers offered in 
the churches ; she was half mad with fear. Noth- 
ing could save him, he suffered fearfully, and on 
the eighth day he died. It is a dreadful illness, 
Mr. Brown.” 

“ What is a ‘ dreadful illness * ? ” 

I was awaiting her answer with keen interest, 
and my eyes were upon the Vicars face. 

“ Scarlet fever,” she answered ; then, casting 
a resentful glance at her husband, she went on : 
“ Though the story is old to you, John, it amused 
Mr. Brown. I think a man who snubs his wife 
is a monstrosity which ought to be smothered.” 

So saying she rose from the table, and with a 
laugh— which we neither of us could echo — she 
left the room. 


Qi ®rue Start). 147 


As soon as the door closed behind her I 
stretched out my hand, and, taking up that 
note upon the table, I pointed to the name 
“ Ursula." 

We looked at one another in silence; the 
Vicar’s face was troubled ; when at length he 
spoke, he spoke appealingly : 

“ Do not speak of her hastily. Brown. She is 
the same woman, but her name is as sacred to 
me as that of my mother." 

“Very well — very well,” impatiently ; “but I 
am amazed. You never mentioned her. I find 
you living here not two miles apart. What an 
extraordinary coincidence ! " 

“ It is no coincidence ; it is her own doing. 
Upon that night, eight years ago — that terrible 
night of which you and I alone know — I chanced 
to hit upon some words which impressed her. 
More than once she subsequently came to Lead- 
enpool, when the burden of her secret over- 
whelmed her, for such help and comfort as I 
could give her. This living, as you have been 
told, is in her husband’s gift, and when the late 
incumbent died it was by her influence offered 


to me. 


148 


& ®r nc Storg. 



During the silence which fell between us my 
thoughts were busy with the past. 

“ From what your wife tells me, she seems 
to have suffered ” 

“ She has suffered all her life,” he interrupted 
quickly ; “ she has had a hard and bitter fate ; 
in such a dangerous way as her weak woman’s 
feet were cast, what wonder if she missed the 
right road ? Now her name is a by-word for 
good ; her humility, her patience, her abnegation 
of self and devotion to others unparalleled.” 

Again a long silence fell between us. 

“ And her boy died,” I said at length. 

The Vicar’s face did not encourage discus- 
sion of the story. 

“ Vengeance is mine,” he muttered below 
his breath. “To blinder eyes than mine are the 
great truths of the Bible manifest. It is not be- 
tween its pages alone that I find a record of 
judgment for sin.” 




“ VIOLETS, DIM.” 


. . . Violets, dim, 

But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes 
Or Cytherea’s breath. 

The Winter’s Tale. 

PART I. 

To-day is the twenty-ninth of December 
and my twentieth birthday. I had forty-three 
parcels by post this morning, which all con- 
tained birthday presents. I am lucky in having 
so many kind and considerate friends. 

The house is full of people, chiefly girls and 
young men, for we have our Christmas ball to- 
night. I am tired out, for I have not had one 
quiet moment since I came down to breakfast 
at ten o’clock this morning. 

Six years ago my poor mother died and left 
me to look after papa and take care of little 
Roger, my baby brother. But I seldom see 


“biokts, EDirn. 1 * 


! 5 ° 


papa, for he goes to London three times a week, 
and when he is at home he sits alone in the 
library reading papers and receiving — about 
every half hour — telegrams to say that “ things,” 
with mysterious names, are rising (or falling, as 
the case may be). The rise and fall of these 
“ things ” seem to be of great importance both 
to him and to the pale men with bright, restless 
eyes who come to stay with us from Saturday 
till Monday. 

We are rich (disgustingly rich, Mr. Charles 
Hamer says when we quarrel, which we do oc- 
casionally) ; we have a great many servants, 
smart servants, of whom I stand a little in awe, 
a great many horses and carriages, and a great 
deal of pomp about all our arrangements at 
Linden Hall, where we live. 

Our house is pleasantly situated not far from 
the barracks. The soldiers are very friendly 
and agreeable ; I see them constantly. In the 
summer they play tennis here — we have six 
lawn tennis grounds — they dine with us very 
often, indeed. Papa says that they can appre- 
ciate his ’51 port. I can’t. They drive on our 
coach, and all the unmarried ones have been, at 


“bioiets, EDim.” 


151 


one time or another, very seriously in love with 
me — at least, they all have, with one exception 
(Mr. Charles Hamer is that exception), asked 
me to marry them. When I refuse them they 
go away on leave for a few days ; they do not 
break their hearts, for they soon come back 
again quite cheerful, and not at all offended. 
Major Lovelace, however, is rather tiresome ; he 
pretends not to understand that “ No ” means 
“ No,” and can not, by any possibility, be 
twisted into “ Yes.” He was frantic with mis- 
ery when I explained to him that I can never 
leave papa. Just lately Charlie Hamer has be- 
come very cross and disagreeable ; he used to 
be so different that it is disappointing to see 
him grow as sour as rhubarb and as cynical as 
Solomon; besides which he is going to India 
soon, and it would be nicer to part as friends, 
because we have been friends for a long, long 
while. 

As a rule, I love dancing ; but, for all that, 
I am not looking forward to our ball to-night. 

Papa is looking ill and anxious — telegram 
boys are to be met on the drive at all hours of 
the day — and I have something which, if it were 


152 “biolets, EEHm.” 


in my head, I should call a headache ; but as it 
is in my left side, I don’t know its name. 

India is such thousands of miles away, and 
I believe those horrid Russians are sneaking 
about the frontier in their odious, treacherous 
way. Now, if war should be declared, and if 
anyone I knew — Major Lovelace, say — happened 
to be there — oh, dear, dear, dear , DEAR, what 
should I do ? Last night Charlie said, “ Every 
bullet has its billet, and he could stop a cannon 
ball as well as any other man.” He did not see 
the tears in my eyes, because it was nearly dark 
in the corridor ; but they were there, and one of 
them fell on his hand — the hand which held 
mine. We were saying “ Good night.” Papa 
joined us at that moment, so I could not speak, 
even if the lump in my throat would have al- 
lowed me to do so. 

Our house is huge and every bedroom is oc- 
cupied, and every sitting-room has lost its indi- 
vidual character, and is metamorphosed into a 
mere ball-room accessory. The passages are 
avenues of flowers, the recesses are banks of 
moss and fern. Couches, isolated and yet 
handy, are placed in screened corners and under 


i 


“bidets, JDitn.” 


T 53 


palm trees. The conservatory will be a para- 
dise for couples who like that sort of paradise ; 
the supper-room will be a paradise for couples 
who like another sort of paradise. A formidable 
person from London superintended these ar- 
rangements with a sober solemnity which de- 
pressed me ; my spirits, generally excellent, 
flagged that day. 

Roger, my little brother, followed me about 
like a dog. Neither his nurse nor his governess, 
nor I, can keep him quiet or out of mischief ; we 
might as easily animate the row of ornamental 
statuary in the rose-garden as persuade Roger 
to be other than a boisterously wild little 
urchin. To Mr. Hamer he was devoted, and 
Mr. Hamer he would obey ! but Mr. Hamer, 
although he promised to come and see the 
decorations, never came. 

Roger asked Major Lovelace, 

“Where is Charlie? Vi’let and I wants 
him.” 

And Major Lovelace said, in his absurd 
drawling way which irritates me, “ Hamer’s 
awfully sorry, but he’s too busy to come up this 
afternoon.” Pshaw ! Who ever heard of a 


154 


“biolets, SDim .’ 1 


soldier who was too busy to do what he wished 
to do? “Too busy” was only an excuse, and 
excuses are not straightforward : they are all 
very well for women — it is not our place to be 
candid, we are brought up to deceive — but they 
do not become a man, and least of all a soldier. 

At seven o’clock I was wending my way to 
my room to dress — we dined at eight — when, in 
the passage, I met papa. He stopped, and tak- 
ing my hand, kissed me in a very hard, jumpy 
way upon the cheek. 

“Oh, Violet, Violet,” he cried in an odd 
voice which startled me, “ My poor, dear little 
girl ; my poor child.” 

“ What do you mean, papa? Has — Jenkins 
— done — it — again ? ” in a gasp of horror. Jen- 
kins was our butler and he was not a teetotaler, 
though, when sober, an excellent servant (or, 
perhaps, I should say a lenient master). If 
Jenkins had “ done it again ” the situation was 
indeed a critical one ; but papa reassured me. 

“Jenkins is all right — he’s as safe as the 
Bank of England,” with a sigh. 

“ What’s the matter, papa ? ” 

“Matter! What should be the matter? 


“ftiokts, EDim.” 


i55 


Nothing, but I wish this beastly ball at Jericho,” 
and he kissed me again and hurried away. 

In sober frame of mind I dressed that night. 
My gown was from Paris, a beautiful mauve 
creation, wreathed with Neapolitan violets and 
made like — well, just like Paris, neither a sack 
nor a skin. Round my yellow hair — all among 
the fuzzes, and the piled curls and twists, on the 
artistic manipulation of which my maid, Pauline, 
prided herself — I bound a narrow wreath of 
violets. 

Five extravagant men had each sent me a 
bouquet. Pauline had unpacked them ; they 
were as big as washing basins, and scented the 
room until I felt faint. Major Lovelace’s bou- 
quet was all gardenia, tuberose, and stephanotis ; 
I shut it up in the wardrobe because I did not 
like the smell. Someone, whose taste, by a 
divine intuition, always coincided with my own, 
had sent me a posy of violets, tied with violet 
velvet. I buried my nose in their fresh, sweet 
faces, and touched their delicate petals with my 
lips, and, leaving their smart cousins behind to 
waste their overpowering sweetness on “ the 
desert air,” I selected them for the fatal honor 


“bioiets, SDirn.” 


* 5 6 


of a night in the deadly heat of the ball- 
room. 

Three hours later we were in the thick of 
it — “ the thick of it ” is an expression I have 
learnt from the barracks, it suits a ball-room as 
well as a battle-field ; the band was playing the 
second waltz, and nearly all the guests had 
arrived. A row of men, smart men who have 
no youthful enthusiasm not to miss a dance, and 
no chivalrous desire to set the expectant ladies, 
who stand awaiting the pleasure of their lords, 
at their ease (surely a ball-room is the place 
where the inferiority of our sex is unpleasantly 
manifested), stood in front of me. Their stiff 
backs, stiff collars, trim heads, and thoughtful 
faces were all alike, but one. Charlie Hamer 
was the stiffest, the trimmest, the smartest, the 
ugliest of them all. The simplest, softest heart 
beat, I know, under that irreproachable shirt- 
front. 

I passed them quickly, for I wanted to speak 
to Mrs. Grandison-Smith, who, with her three 
daughters, had just pushed their way into the 
ball-room. The girls, with very long fringes, 
very low dresses, very small waists, and very 




r 57 


white necks, stood, with searching, business- 
like eyes, scanning the horizon. The Miss 
Grandison - Smiths were sure to dance; they 
could take care of themselves, but they had 
with them a shy damsel, young, anxious, con- 
scious of her badly-made dress, to whom my 
sympathies, in my capacity as hostess, were in- 
stantly drawn. 

Major Lovelace was, as usual, by my side. 
I turned to him abruptly. 

“ May I introduce you to — to a friend of 
mine ? ” 

“ Where is she ? I must see her first, don’t 
you know.” 

I hastily indicated my anxious-eyed prottgte. 

“ Now, Miss Merrick, that’s too bad. Ask 
anything else — don’t you ” 

But I had turned away. There stood 
Charlie scowling at me: he always looked as 
black as a thunder-cloud when I spoke to Major 
Lovelace. I had no time to think — at a ball no- 
body thinks, or nothing would be done, and no 
one would enjoy herself. I crossed in front 
of a palm tree, and stood by Charlie’s side. 

“ Charlie,” I said, laying the tip of my enor- 


“ biolets, liim.” 


158 


mous feather fan on his arm, “ do you see that 
little girl over there with the white dress and a 
peony in her hair ? ” 

“ The one with the shining face and the red 
elbows ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well ? ” 

“ I want her to have a good time and enjoy 
herself.” 

He looked at her for a moment and then 
turned his gray eyes on me. 

“ It is her first ball,” I urged persuasively — I • 
was staring at the tip of my shoe. 

“ All right,” he said, “ but I want my pay 
down on the nail. Let me look at your card ” — 
this was impertinent ; I said so — “ please, Vi- 
olet.” He had hold of the card by that time, 
and he wrote C. H. before three dances in suc- 
cession far down on the programme. 

“ All together,” I said remonstratingly. 

“Foreign service, double pay,” he said smil- 
ing. “ May I have the supper extras too ? ” 

I nodded quickly. “ Five dances,” I re- 
marked, emphasizing the number. 

“ I wish it were fifty," said he. 


“ biolets, SDitn.” 


r 59 


“ So do I,” I thought, but I said, “ What 
nonsense, Charlie ! ” I conducted him over to 
the shining-faced girl with the red elbows, to 
whom I introduced him. 

Did not some man of uncomfortably acute 
perceptions once say, “ Alas for that girl to 
whom the time has come when she watches the 
door? ” Then, “ alas ” for me ; all that night I 
watched the door, each door, every door, and to 
whomsoever I talked, and at whatsoever I 
looked, and wheresoever I sat, or took a turn, or 
halted to rest, there I saw a head (curly in spite 
of close cropping), a pair of broad square 
shoulders, and a familiar face ; an honest, ugly 
face, which blotted all other faces, handsome or 
the reverse, out of my sight. My anxious-eyed 
guest was transfigured into a joyous, smiling, 
successful little hoyden, whose beaming bliss 
seemed agreeable to “ our fellows,” for she was 
handed from one to another in turn. Success is 
the best friend to success ; her “ good time ” 
was assured ; on her account I might rest at 
ease. 

I danced the ninth waltz with Major Love- 
lace ; he proposed to me as coolly as though it 


160 “biokts, tDitn.” 


was the first time he had ever done so ; but I 
was more than firm — I was cross. I said : 

“ Nothing but death. Major Lovelace, will 
part me from papa.” 

“ Death or Charlie Hamer,” he retorted, 
with the ugliest laugh I ever heard in my life. 
I tossed my head and walked away from him. 

Numbers thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen were 
a long time coming, but they came at last. 
Number thirteen was the waltz “ Bid me Good- 
by.” It is the loveliest air in the world, and, as 
soon as the band struck up, Charlie stood by 
my side, put his arm round my waist without 
one word, and we plunged — no, we glided, 
and swam and swooped — among the dancers. 
When the music ceased we stopped, but not till 
then. I could have danced with him forever. 
He took me into the conservatory. I sat down 
upon papa’s favorite library chair, which was 
placed in a shady corner by the door, and 
Charlie stood beside me. The air smelt of 
flowers, and was cooled by great blocks of ice, 
which were placed, here and there, upon the 
moss, amongst the ferns at our feet. 

Charlie was oppressively silent; taciturnity 


“biokte, UDirn.” 161 


was infectious. I could think of nothing to say. 

I knew he was looking at me — his eyes have the 
same sort of expression as the eyes of my dog 
Ben — but I did not glance toward him. I be- 
gan to pull my bouquet to pieces. I strewed 
the dying heads of the Neapolitan violets all 
over my lap. If my tongue was idle my fingers 
were ceaselessly active. 

“ Violet, look here ; I can’t stand this any 
longer,” he began, so sternly that I thought he 
was angry with me, and not without reason, for 
wantonly destroying his present. 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon,” I apologized has- 
tily, “ I wasn’t thinking. I am so sorry I have 
spoiled it.” 

“ I can’t stand this,” he repeated, not seem- 
ing to hear me. “ It is awful for a penniless 
chap like I am to have fallen in love with one of 
the biggest heiresses about the place. I am 
not afraid of you, Violet, but I am afraid of your 
disgusting money. I have been awfully fond of 
you for years, but the money puts me off. It is 

most ” he broke off suddenly and coughed ; 

we were interrupted, and by Jenkins. The dig- 
nified Jenkins was running, and his face was 


IT 


162 


“biokt0, EDim.” 


white. My heart, which had stood still to listen 
to Charlie’s words, now began to beat very fast. 

“ If you please, ma’am, my master wants you, 
he is in the smoking-room,” Jenkins gasped ; he 
was out of breath. 

“ Is there anything the matter, Jenkins ? ” 

Jenkins glanced at Charlie, and answered 
with vague diplomacy : 

“ Mr. Merrick is taken a little queer, ma’am ; 
will you come quick, please? ” 

Was it reaction, or a presentiment of coming 
trouble, which turned me cold and sick at 
heart ? 

In the smoking-room I found papa ; he was 
alone and sitting — no, crouching — over the fire 
with a face pale as ashes and horror-stricken 
eyes. He turned from me and groaned, burying 
his face in his hands. I went over to him and 
kissed his bald head and put my arms round his 
neck. 

“ You are over-tired, dear papa,” I said, pre- 
tending not to be frightened. “You are tired 
to death.” 

“ I wish I was dead,” he muttered. “ I am 
worse than dead, far worse.” 


“biolets, ICDim. 1 ’ 


163 


“You will be better to-morrow,” cheeringly 
kissing him with lips that trembled, do what I 
would. 

“ I shall never be better, Violet — never.” 

I do not know what awful fear possessed 
me, but I turned giddy, and the room reeled 
round me. 

“ Papa, tell me, don’t keep it from me,” I 
implored, catching his hand in mine. “ What 
is it ? What has happened ? ” 

“ It was for your sake, Violet, for you and 
Roger; it was for my children that I endeav- 
ored to augment my fortune. And I am ruined. 
Ruined ; you are too young to realize what that 
means. I have lost every sixpence I possess, 
every acre of land, every stick of furniture, your 
old home, everything on earth except — except 
my good name. I have lived too long, Violet, 
too long.” 

He did not hear my comforting words, nor 
feel the kisses by which I tried to show the 
sympathy I could not express, for his head fell 
forward on his breast, his hands dropped to his 
sides. I thought he was dead. 

“ It’s a stroke, ma’am,” said Jenkins, coming 


164 


“biokts, ftOim. 1 ’ 


over from the door where he had remained 
watching us, “ a stroke, and it’s this telegram, 
ma’am, that has done the business. It came 
this evening, and, in the bustle, I forgot it until 
ten minutes ago. When I gave it to my master 
he tore it open like a wild thing, and then he 
caught hold of my arm. ‘ Take me away, Jenk- 
ins,’ he said, tottering and shaking, ‘ I’m done 
for.’ And it’s done for he is, I am afraid, 
ma’am.” 


PART II. 

“ Only a year ago, love, only a year ago,” 
sang our musical maid-of-all-work at the top of 
her very powerful voice — she was mounting the 
staircase on her way to her well-earned repose. 
I was sitting in my bedroom by Roger’s crib ; 
he was asleep and I had a sock of his in my 
hand which I was darning. Roger was not 
well ; he was feverish, and I was anxious about 
him. I kept pausing in my work to stare at his 
flushed face and listen to his quick breathing. 

“ Only a year ago, love, only a year ago,” 
burst out again ; the last words were drowned 


“biolcts, SDitn.” 


l6 5 


by the slamming of the attic door where Theresa 
slept. “ Only a year ago,” I repeated, swallow- 
ing a sigh which was almost a groan. Was 
that awful, awful night, only a year ago ? Yes, 
this was the 29th of December come round 
again, this was my birthday — it was the same 
and yet — and yet how different. Upon the third 
floor of a cheap lodging-house by the sea, Roger 
and I lived together and alone. We eked out 
our existence upon the annual income derived 
(at three per cent.) from ^2,000, which sum 
alone had been saved out of the wreck of our 
fortunes. We had no belongings at Sidmouth 
but a monumentless grave in the churchyard, 
where, six months ago, my father had been 
buried, no friend but Theresa, the songstress, 
about whom was nothing formal but her name. 
No presents have been lavished to do honor to 
my coming of age — a present would have been 
so welcome; no congratulations had been of- 
fered — and yet kind words are so pleasant ; no 
sweet flowers had been sent to brighten our 
dingy little sitting-room. It is the same all the 
world over ; those who have receive ; those who 
have not— alas ! for them. I shivered for a mo- 


1 66 


‘♦biolets, EDim.” 


ment, and bent down to kiss Rogers curly 
head ; he was all I had. 

“ Only a year ago.” I recalled that night — 
the long hour during which I stood by the 
couch where my father lay insensible, while I 
could feel the vibration of the ball-room, could 
hear the boisterous music of the band, and smell 
the fading violets. The moment when I had 
gone back amongst my guests — the news of our 
misfortunes had been already whispered — every 
eye was on me ; but I had played my part with 
composure, which had looked like bravery, but 
which was in reality the effect of a stunned 
comprehension that realised nothing. I recalled 
all that, and then my treacherous memory went 
back to forbidden grounds — back to the time 
when I, in a fool’s paradise of flowers and soft 
lights and vain imaginings, had listened breath- 
less to what? — to false and lying words which 
I had believed. I would have staked my life 
upon their truth, but in those days I had been 
easy to deceive — such a credulous simpleton, 
who walked through life with closed eyes but 
open ears. There had been a ring of something 
in those words which had made them sound 


“biokts, iDint.” 167 


beautiful and touching. Through that first 
black time of trouble when I sat day after day 
beside my father’s sick bed, I had heard them 
again and again ; their memory comforted me. 
Loss of fortune did not overwhelm me ; I was 
young and hopeful; I had not had that bitter 
loss, the loss of faith and hope, to bear. 

The war-scare— it was a panic which bore 
fatal results for us — had left me a very pauper 
indeed. Without a word of farewell, without a 
look of sympathy Charlie Hamer had gone. I 
had never seen nor heard of him since I last 
saw him close to me by the palms in the con- 
servatory. He had behaved wisely, prudently, 
discreetly ; I had learnt, by sharp experience, 
the hardness of poverty. Lovers, however ar- 
dent their love, can not exist upon their pas- 
sions. Protestations of affection do not pay the 
butcher, and bread and butter are not replen- 
ished by the most romantic devotion. Yes, he 
had behaved wisely, prudently, discreetly; but 
does wisdom, or prudence, or discretion cure 
heartache ? I fear not. 

“ My own self-pity, like the red-breast bird, 

Flies back to cover all that past with leaves.” 


i68 


“biokts, HJirn. 


My spirits were good enough. I was careful 
that they should be good. I could not trifle 
with melancholy now ; it was sternly and ruth- 
lessly banished. I cultivated laughter and 
smiles for Roger’s sake. Yes, but I was cob- 
bling his sock disgracefully ; the candle wanted 
snuffing, or my eyes were dim. I rose and went 
across the room, and stood before the looking- 
glass. How I had changed ! The glass was 
cracked, and some of the quicksilver had been 
rubbed away from the back of it ; so, perhaps, 
I was not so contorted and lugubrious as the re- 
flection which I criticised. My black dress was 
rusty and ill-made — it was my make. Pauline 
would have shuddered at the sight of it, and at 
my hair, which was gathered into a yellow knot 
at the back of my head, twists and coils were 
gone, though a stray lock or two still curled on 
my forehead — my forehead, where long, ugly 
lines were traced. Just then the church clock 
struck eleven. Our house was a detached villa 
which overlooked the churchyard. Roger stirred 
in his sleep and opened his eyes. 

“ I am so hot, Vi,” he sighed, “ it’s like the 
kitchen up here.” 


“biolets, HJitn. 


169 


He was right — the room was hot, very hot ; 
it had been a bitterly cold day, too ; and yet, 
now, the air was oppressive. 

I went over to his side and threw off the 
coverlet. 

“ That’s better, Roger ; go to sleep, dear, it 
is so late, the very middle of the night.” 

He shut his eyes for a moment, and then 
suddenly opened them wide. 

“ 'Tisn’t night at all, Violet. It’s morning. 
Don’t you smell that Theresa’s lighting the 
fire ? ” 

I thought he was dreaming, and I said 
soothingly, “ Yes, yes, dear,” and laid my hand 
on his shoulder to quiet him. 

He shook off my hand and sat up in his crib. 

“ Something’s burning, Vi,” he said, sniffing 
in a deliberate way, which assured me at once 
that he was not dreaming. “ Don’t you smell 
something burning ? ” 

I did ; as he spoke a whiff of air imbued 
with the smell of scorched wood reached my 
nostrils. 

“ Yes, I do, Roger ; I will go and see what 


“bioUts, Dim.” 


170 


And I went over to the door and opened it. 
A cloud of smoke, dense and seeming, in its den- 
sity, almost solid, met me on the threshold, and 
sent me staggering back half-suffocated and 
half-blind into the room. I had the presence of 
mind to close the door, but the room was dim 
with smoke already. 

“ Lie still a moment, Roger, dear,” I said 
very cheerfully ; “ here is an adventure. You 
will have to get up and come out, for I think 
the house is on fire. Wait here, like a good 
boy, while I call Theresa.” 

I put a shawl over my head, and, opening 
the door a little way, I knelt down and crawled 
through the aperture and out upon the landing. 
I heard the crackling of flames and thick clouds 
of smoke rolled over my head. It was light, 
for the floor below us was on fire; it was 
ablaze — the staircase was impassable. There 
was no one in the house but the landlady, who 
slept on the first floor, Theresa in the attic, and 
ourselves. 

I went back to Roger ; he was very much 
excited, but not frightened. I wrapped him in a 
blanket and took him into my arms. As I did 


“ bidets, <Dim.” 


171 


so I heard the sound of voices outside the house 
and a cry, a loud, piercing cry of “ Fire ! ” 
“Fire!” which was repeated again and again 
until every sound I heard — the roar of the sea in 
the distance and the murmur of voices— seemed 
to me to be the same cry of “ Fire ! ” “ Fire ! ” 
I trembled for an instant because the one voice, 
indeed, all the voices, were like Charlie’s voice. 

“ Where are we going, Vi ? ” asked Roger. 
The smoke choked him. I carried him across 
the landing to the bottom of the attic stairs. 

“ We are going to wake Theresa.” 

Theresa’s room was under the roof. The 
house was not a high one, but it was old, and 
it burned like tinder. The girl was asleep ; I 
woke her with difficulty and then I helped her 
to dress. The smoke had not reached us, but 
the flames were bursting out of the lower win- 
dows of the house. They lit up the night as 
brightly as the sun could have done. The mur- 
mur of voices had grown into a roar which 
mingled with the roar of the sea that thundered 
on the pebbles ; the church bells clashed out the 
alarm of fire, and still in every sound it seemed 
to me that I could hear Charlie’s voice. Per- 


172 


“biolcts, EDim. 11 


haps, in time of peril, in times of mortal peril, 
some consolation is vouchsafed, some sign of 
more than human power sent to strengthen and 
to comfort. Very soon we had to open our 
window and lean out, for the smoke had reached 
our refuge. Upon the lawn below us had gath- 
ered a huge crowd of people. When they saw 
us they gave a great shout which frightened 
Roger, who clung to me, trembling. 

Theresa was calm but very white. 

“ I hope they will make haste with a ladder,” 
she said, “ they will want a long one to reach 
us. If it don’t come in time, miss, I shall be 
dreadful put out to think I never washed up 
them tea-things.” 

“ Call out to them, Theresa ; tell them the 
ladder must be very long.” 

I could not call to save my life. I had lost 
my voice. I could only whisper hoarsely. 

Theresa obeyed me, but the crackling of the 
fire, the roar of the sea, and the jangling clamor 
of the bells drowned her voice. The clash of 
those alarum bells was terrible. I pressed my 
face close to Roger’s, and strained him to me. 

“ Shall we be killed, Vi ? ” he asked in an 


“ biolcts, EDim.” 


'73 


awe-struck whisper. “ Won’t God take care of 
us?” 

“ If we go away, darling, we shall see papa 
and mamma ; we are only going where they 
have gone.” 

“ I’m frightened, Vi ; you’ll come, too ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, yes, yes, my darling.” 

“ And Theresa? ” 

“ Yes, Master Roger,” said Theresa valiantly, 
“ and I be glad to go in such good company. 
It’s not a hard place, and there’s a good master 
there I’ve heard. It’s as well to go soon as late, 
I’m thinking.” 

A deaf, frantic, merciless tongue of flame 
outstripped its fellows, and curled, with a 
crackle, round our window ledge. Roger put 
out one arm, and caught me round the neck. 

“ Will it hurt much, Violet ? ” 

“ Not more than we can bear, Roger.” 

As I spoke a cheer, a triumphant, exultant, 
ringing cheer, broke out below us, and through 
the smoke-laden air a ladder waved slowly, and 
stood a moment later, close against the window. 
Theresa burst into wild sobbing, and caught me 
round the waist and cried : 


174 


“biokts, EDim.” 


“ I shall see Bill again, come Sunday, and 
not be in the papers after all ! ” 

Up the ladder came a man to whom, in 
a dream, I handed Roger. Another instant 
and I was helping Theresa through the win- 
dow; she went out in a tempest of tears 
and calling upon Bill. Then it was my turn. 
My eyes were blinded with smoke, and I was 
faint from the stifling heat. It seemed less 
hard to sink down and die there than to 
exert myself to climb through the window 
and descend the ladder. I was giddy. I 
thought that I should not be able to keep my 
footing. 

But I was not required to do so. A strong 
arm held me tight and secure, a steady hand 
guided my tottering steps ; the most beautiful 
voice on earth said : 

“ Don’t be frightened, Violet, don’t be fright- 
ened. You are quite safe. I will take care of 
you.” 

I looked at the speaker; his smoke-begrimed 
face and the smuts on his nose could not dis- 
guise him. 

“Have you come to take me to heaven, 


“bidets, Dim.” 


i75 


Charlie ? ” I asked him, wondering. I was 
worn out, and my head was not quite clear. 

“ My darling ! ” and he kissed me there on 
the ladder before he lifted me down to the 
ground ; ‘‘I’m not quite the right color to go 
there now, but if you " 

I do not know what he was going to say, or 
whether he was laughing or crying, because I 
did a thing which I had never done before, 
and which I have never done since — I fainted. 

Although Charlie and I talked over the mis- 
understanding of that dreadful year for days and 
weeks, and now, though we have been married 
for a year, we have not nearly • exhausted the 
subject, yet I can explain it all to you in three 
minutes. 

Of course things had gone wrong in an in- 
credibly stupid way, but then, in this world, lov- 
ers are not the wisest and clearest headed of 
people; if they were practically sensible and 
logically minded there would be fewer bachelors 
and old maids, fewer broken hearts and fewer 
tales to tell. 

On the morning of my birthday ball, Charlie 


176 


“ bidets, IDim.” 


had received a telegram ordering him to start 
immediately for India. All that afternoon he 
had been preparing for the journey. You know 
what he said to me in the conservatory ; well, 
he had intended to say a great deal more than 
that. As soon as he heard of poor papa’s illness 
he went off for the doctor (was not that just like 
him ? ). When he returned the ball was over, 
the house was in confusion, and I was in the 
sick room ; so he could not see me. 

He wrote to me ; it must have been the 
sweetest letter in the world, but I never received 
it. In the bustle and horror of that calamitous 
time, the servants (such of them as remained 
with us) were demoralised— the letter was lost. 

Sore at heart at getting no answer, Charlie 
sailed the next week for India. He thought all 
sorts of preposterous things ; he absolutely 
imagined that I preferred poor tiresome Major 
Lovelace to him. He hoped that there would 
be war, so that he might be killed. This is 
what he told me, and I believe every word he 
says. But there was no war, there was worse ; 
for typhoid fever broke out at the place where 
he was stationed. He caught the disease, and 


“biolcis, JDint” 


177 


was very ill for a long, long while. When he 
got well enough to travel he came home on sick 
leave. He wrote to me again, and again I never 
received it. The people who had bought our 
house did not know my address, and they would 
not trouble themselves to find it out. Then 
Charlie’s uncle died. He was a rich old man, 
and he left him some money ; so Charlie went 
down to Linden Hall himself, and by pestering 
and prying and inquiring, he found out we were 
living at Sidmouth. He followed us there, and 
arrived upon the evening of my birthday ; it was 
too late to call and see me, but not too late to 
walk round the house and speculate as to which 
of the windows was the window of my room. 
He it was who raised the alarm of fire, he it was 
whose voice I heard and recognised, he it was 
who bound together the short ladders, and who, 
like the brave, ready-witted soldier he is, saved 
our lives for us. 

If he did not come to take me to heaven, he 
has taken me very near it. 


12 



X 


“ POOR DEAR MAMMA.” 

THE CONFESSIONS OF A DISCONTENTED GIRL. 


CHAPTER I. 

“ Expect nothing and you will not be disappointed. ' 1 

I remember reading that axiom — or apo- 
thegm, or aphorism, I do not know which to call 
it — at the beginning of one of mamma’s books. 
The book was a copy of “ The Children of the 
New Forest,” which was much dog-eared, and, 
indeed, read to pieces. 

I dislike that untidy and silly habit of 
scribbling remarks in books. Mamma, when 
she was a girl, wrote something foolish upon the 
fly-leaf of every book which she possessed. 

Once upon a time I did write a few words 
upon the title-page of mamma’s birth -day book. 
I wrote this line — 

“ With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a 
daughter’s heart. ” 


“Poor £Dear ittantma.” 


1 19 


Mamn^L must have seen it, for she studies 
that book every day of her life, but she has not 
mentioned it in any way. I expect her con- 
science smote her, and she was ashamed to find 
that Tennyson himself knows what mothers 
are ! 

“ Expect nothing and you will not be disappointed 

Expect nothing ! What a sentiment and what 
advice ! Luckily no one thinks of taking advice 
— except when it is their own advice — so the 
advice does not signify much one way or the 
other. Expect nothing ! How about Pandora’s 
gift, our best friend Hope ? 

However, my sister Flo, who is married, and 
rather morbid, says that Hope is no blessing, 
but an eternal old nuisance. She speaks feel- 
ingly, for she is for ever expecting to reap (and 
for ever disappointed of reaping) a fortune from 
her husband’s gamblings on the Stock Ex- 
change : he is an inveterate but unfortunate 
speculator. 

But it is not my morbid sister about whom I 
intend to write. She married three years ago, 
before I left school, and lives in London, while 


i8o 


“Poor EDcar ittantmct.” 


we vegetate in the country among cows and 
cabbages. 

My mother married a country clergyman. I 
suppose I ought not to blame her for that, be- 
cause she is very fond of him, and had she 
married anyone else (papa’s ill-tempered cousin, 
the judge, for instance), I do not think she would 
have been happy. 

No ; I do not blame her for marrying a coun- 
try clergyman ; but I do think her conduct cul- 
pable in allowing him to stagnate during his 
whole life in a country rectory. [To be sure, 
poor papa’s abilities are not anything very par- 
ticular, for his sermons are dull, prosy, and full 
of repetition. Neither does he care for any of 
those pretty things and pretty ways that make 
the services at some churches pass quite quickly.] 
She may love her garden. I suppose, as a mat- 
ter of fact, she does love it, for she freckles her 
face in the summer and reddens her hands in 
the winter with messing among the flowers. I 
feel sure that if she once made up her mind to 
have nothing more to do with gardening she 
would be far happier, for her flowers are an 
endless anxiety to her. 


“Poor ?Bcar ittatttma . 11 


181 


My black poodle, Mepho, is not at all a 
greedy dog, but he is thrifty ; so if I give him a 
bone which he does not want, he buries it. 

I know it is most unfortunate that he chooses 
the carnation bed for his cupboard ; but who 
can blame him ? The soil is light and easy to 
dig, and how is he to understand that carnation 
plants are brittle ? 

No wonder that I lost my temper when 
mamma, with the shears in her hand, ran after 
Mepho, calling him all sorts of names. I must 
allow that she did not catch him, for she was 
soon exhausted with the chase, and sadly out of 
breath. 

Mepho is not her only enemy. The mice eat 
her bulbs, the slugs eat the seedlings, the cater- 
pillars eat the roses,, the aphids spoil everything, 
and then (terrible catastrophe!) the gardener 
overheats the flues in the conservatory and kills 
every plant there. 

Mamma may love her garden, but, I assert, 
she would be happier without it. We are 
happier without things we like when those 
things give us cause for anxiety. If she had 
some nice little window-boxes, filled with white 


182 


“Past EDear ittatttma.” 


Marguerite daisies, scarlet geraniums, and blue 
lobelias (in a street, or terrace, or circus, or cres- 
cent, where there was someone to admire them 
besides herself), I am sure she ought to be satis- 
fied. She could garden quite luxuriously then ; 
neither breaking her back nor burning her face. 
Really under those circumstances, I should not 
mind helping her occasionally myself. 

You have no idea how short mamma was 
with me when I first suggested this excellent 
plan. I feel I am right when I say that to live 
in the country all the year round if you have a 
pretty daughter, who would adorn society, is the 
most selfish thing imaginable. To be sure, we 
have some neighbors, but they are old frumps, 
who do not know a Redfern from a home-made 
scientific — that will show you the sort of people 
they are. But mamma likes them ; they satisfy 
her taste. 

Of course I have read lovely poems and ex- 
quisite bits of prose all upon the subject of 
“ mothers,” or, rather, abstract motherhood. 
It seems a pity to exaggerate things so much, 
for I adore trtcth , and my eyes are wide open ; 
it is not easy to deceive me. I say this without 


“Poor Dear ittaittnta.” 


183 


conceit ; I am merely stating a fact. I have 
discovered, and the discovery cost me much 
pain (for those poems and bits of prose were 
very beautiful) that mothers are not perfect. 
My mother, although she is twenty-five years 
older than I, is not perfect. I have known her 
dogmatic and dictatorial. I have heard her 
exaggerate. I have seen her lose her temper 
during a discussion on some uninteresting po- 
litical question with our Whig Squire. She is a 
redhot Tory, and, I believe, argues on subjects 
which she does not understand. 

The name of our Whig Squire is Yorke. 
He has an only daughter, Puss, who is my 
bosom friend. We tell each other everything — 
all our troubles ; so I know that she, too, has a 
great deal to put up with at home. 

Mrs. Yorke is indolent and apathetic. She is 
content (as is mamma) with a country life. 
Pussy is full of energy and spirit, and when she 
tries to kindle an answering desire for life and 
gaiety in Mrs. Yorke, she yawns and goes out of 
the room. 

The race of mothers has declined. Their re- 
puted devotion, their selfrsacrifiGe, lived but in 


“JJoar T3cax iHamma.” 


tradition. To be brief, they are self-opinionated. 
They may listen to what their daughters have 
to say upon different subjects — they may listen, 
I say, and they may hear, but they do not heed. 
They preserve their old-world notions, and the 
most convincing argument does not induce them 
to alter the daily routine of their life. I suppose 
it may not be altogether their fault ; it is a mis- 
fortune to be narrow-minded and bigoted. I 
try to be tolerant, but mamma is very trying ; 
she treats some of my most cherished ideas 
with a smiling superiority. 

There are many, many girls who prefer to 
face the horrors of a hospital, or the disciplined 
life of a sister of charity, rather than endure the 
vexations of an unsympathetic home-life with a 
poor faulty parent. I should never do that. I 
would suffer anything rather than live with 
miserable sick persons, or wear a hideous nun’s 
dress and no fringe : but I wish to marry ; that 
must be happiness. A house of my own, my 
very own, where I may cover the walls with fans, 
or plates, or drapery ; where I may sit all day 
long over the fire reading novels (if I wish to do 
so), with no one to send me out for a walk ; 


“Poor Clear Ittamma.” 




where, in fact, I am sole mistress ; and where 
I may do just what I like, just in my own 
way. 

Mamma talks in the most calculating and 
worldly minded manner about marriage. She 
says that girls marry for the sake of change and 
a wedding-ring. We disagree sadly on this sub- 
ject, but she is obstinate. You might as well 
argue with a certain quadruped (which must 
be nameless), once coerced by stratagem into 
journeying to Cork. On one occasion, I talked 
to her without a break from lunch till tea-time, 
and, although she never contradicted me at the 
time, yet when I had finished speaking, I found 
that she was still unconvinced. 

“ You do not know when you are well off, 
Poppy,” she said, looking up from her knitting; 
“ you will never be so happy again as you are 
now. You have no responsibilities — no anxie- 
ties. Believe me that married life is not all 
trousseau and wedding presents.” 

“ Surely, mamma, you do not wish me to be 
an old maid ? ” 

“ I do not wish you to marry the first young 
man you meet merely for the sake of being 


1 86 


“Poor EDror Jttamma.” 


married. Florry says that ‘ old maid ’ is a nick- 
name for a wise woman.” 

“ Mamma,” severely, “ you are married.” 

“ Exactly,” with a funny little laugh ; “ so I 
know where the shoe pinches. Do not look 
horrified, Poppy dear. Yes, yes, yes, I wish 
you to be married, but for the sake of love, 
not change. I want you to marry something 
nice — someone whom your father and I ap- 
prove.” 

That was what she said to me some time 
ago, but I remember it, for I know she spoke 
with a motive. 

In our village lives Miss Matthews ; an ugly, 
uninteresting person— at least, she would be 
uninteresting did she not possess a nephew. 
Of course, if old ladies have male relations they 
can not be totally uninteresting. Ernest is the 
name of Miss Matthews’ nephew — Ernest Wil- 
son. I have known him a long while — a very 
long while ; nearly a year. He comes down 
from Oxford to spend his vacations with Miss 
Matthews. In the summer our neighborhood in- 
dulges itself in constant garden parties, to all of 
which he went ; so did we. I play tennis ; so 


“Poor £Drar ittamma.” 187 


does he. We met frequently; and became at- 
tached. 

I am very much attached to Ernest, though 
he has no money and no chin. When you are 
very much attached to a person, and there is no 
immediate prospect of marriage, want of money 
does not much interfere with the fun. Presents 
may be a pleasantish part of an engagement, 
but a ring is the one thing really requisite. I do 
not mind the no money half so much as I mind 
the no chin. Ernest and I walk to and fro 
the Dove Walk in the twilight side by side, and 
whenever I turn to look at him I miss some- 
thing from his profile. There is a want of 
something ; he seems all mouth and collar. It 
is Pussy’s fault (of course I’d like to be married 
before Pussy ; it is a triumph to beat your neigh- 
bor at any game, and the game of marry is no 
exception to the rule). She is spiteful about my 
engagement, and whenever I see her she always 
begins to talk of chins, of beautiful Grecian 
chins, of heavily molded chins, of clean-cut 
jaws and determined physiognomy. She alludes 
to poor Ernest’s chin as though I had lopped off 
that unfortunate feature with my own hands. 


188 “JJoor y&zax ittamma.” 


None of Pussy’s lovers are the least atom 
desperate, and a desperate lover with no 
chin is better than the sort of lover who 
prefers a cricket-match to you. Bobby Brown, 
Pussy’s third cousin, pretends to love her, but 
he plays cricket (whenever he gets the chance 
of doing so) in preference to spending the 
day with Pussy under the cedars at the Hall. 
Ernest told me this in confidence. He said 
he could not understand Bobby. I can, for 
Pussy is exceedingly stupid if you see much 
of her. 

Cricket is a dangerous game. I. am glad 
Ernest has such bad sight that it prevents him 
from attempting to play ; but I am sorry that he 
is obliged to wear spectacles. Ernest plays 
nothing, and goes nowhere, now. He says he 
can not tear himself from my side. 

Ernest declared himself at our garden party, 
in the kitchen garden. We were eating green 
gooseberries together. I am extremely fond of 
gooseberries. He seemed so very, very nervous, 
that I was obliged to help him a little. He was 
hot and red, and his eyes were blinking away 
behind his glasses. 


“Poor ftlcar ittcnttma.” 


189 


“ Have you pricked yourself, Mr. Wilson ? ” 
I asked anxiously. I thought he looked miser- 
able. 

“No, I have not pricked myself,” he stam- 
mered ; “ not myself. It is you — you have 
pricked me.” 

“ Nonsense ! ” I said tartly, for I thought it 
was silly to make such a fuss over a prickle. 
“ It is impossible.” 

“ You misunderstand me,” he cried. “You 
have not pricked my finger with a thorn ; you 
have gone far deeper— you have pricked my 
heart with your adorable fascinations.” 

Wasn't that poetical? I was conquered, 
but mamma was not. She received my confes- 
sion that evening with a horror which I feel sure 
was assumed merely to annoy me. 

“ Are you joking, Poppy ? if so, it does not 
amuse me.” 

“ It is no joke,. mamma, to love Ernest.” 

“ Oh, Poppy, Poppy ! you are mad ! ”. 

Mamma was wringing her hands. She never 
kissed me, nor wished me joy. Are not mothers 
supposed to be sympathetic? and was that 
sympathetic ? No, it was barbarously cruel. 


T9 0 “$00r UDear iftatttma/” 


No wonder that I grew angry, and cried hotly, 
“Why shouldn’t I love Ernest? You loved 
papa — you married him. I have loved Ernest 
for w-e-e-k-s and w-e-e-k-s.” 

That sounded well : I repeated it louder. 
Mamma is small and upright ; she looks rather 
as though she had swallowed a poker — years ago, 
so that it has had ample time to get digested 
and permeate the system. I am hardly at all 
afraid of her. I am sorry for her if she loses 
her temper, for I can generally manage to keep 
mine in hand. 

“ My dear Poppy, I certainly both loved and 
married your papa ; but your papa was a manly, 
agreeable, well-looking, intellectual man, in a 
position to maintain a wife in comfort. Mr. 
Wilson has no money, no brains, no prospects, 
and no — no ” 

“Chin!" I broke in violently; “no chin ! I 
know what you were going to say. But Ernest 
does not want to marry you ; and / marry a 
man, not a chin. You are cruel ! Yes, I am 
your daughter— I have the misfortune to be your 
daughter — but I am Ernest’s promised wife. 
You have no right to stop my happiness. If I 


“JJoor ftlear iitcunitta.” 


191 


wish to be poor, let me be poor. I do not ask 
you to be poor." 

“ Poppy," said mamma, taking my hand in 
hers, “you are over-excited. Come, come, be 
reasonable." 

“ I am not excited — I am reasonable. Noth- 
ing shall separate me from Ernest. I shall 
marry him as soon — as soon — as soon as he has 
taken his degree." 

“ He will never take his degree," said mam- 
ma solemnly ; “ never, Poppy. Dear, dear, dear ! 
don’t you know a goose when you see one? 
I blame myself — I ought to have been on the 
look-out ; but I should as soon have expected 
danger from a hairdresser’s block as from that 
poor fellow." 

“ I will not stay here if you call my future 
husband such dreadful names ! " I sobbed. 

“ Your future husband ! " mamma groaned. 
“ Oh ! Poppy, you have seen so few people ; you 
know so little ; you will not be guided ; you must 
learn by experience, because you are so wilful a 
child. Learning by experience is a painful pro- 
cess, I warn you." 

“ Don’t talk like that, mamma. I would 


192 


“ Jpaor Wear iHctttttna.” 


rather die than jilt Ernest. I value true affec- 
tion from whatever source it proceeds." 

Mamma bowed her head upon her hands. 
“ Heaven help you, you foolish child ! " she 
said. 


CHAPTER II. 

Ernest and I are engaged. We have been 
engaged a year. For some weeks my parents 
opposed our engagement, but eventually they 
gave way. I was firm — very firm. I thought it 
my duty to be firm. I am not naturally pliable, 
and in this case Ernest's happiness was at stake. 
Papa is weak — sadly weak. Mamma rules him 
(influences him, she calls it) on all subjects ; so 
he, too, argued with me, and tried to convince 
me that he knew more about my feelings than I 
knew myself. But if papa is weak, I am not 
weak ; and though parents are parents, they 
must bow to Love — Ernest always spells it with 
a capital L — and my engagement is now a 
recognized fact. 

I think the University of Oxford is very badly 
managed; the young men’s holidays are too 


“Poor ftlear ittamma.” 


193 


long. How can they pass their examinations if 
they are always at home ? Ernest seems to be 
staying with his aunt all the year round. 

He came to stay with us in the winter for a 
week. It was the longest week I ever spent. 
It was a dreadful week, for Ernest is afraid of 
mamma. She makes him feel nervous ; so, 
when he does speak, he says silly, inane things ; 
or, if he can not think of anything to say, he 
laughs : he laughs incessantly. I think mamma 
might have shown some consideration for me. 
She should have helped me to amuse Ernest, in- 
stead of going out every day and all day long. 

I had a cold — a violent cold, in my head ; so 
I had to stay indoors. Ernest sat with me in 
the drawing room. He likes playing “ draughts." 
I don’t ; I hate it. However, we did play, and 
when I beat him he said that he had allowed me 
to do so because he thought I should like to be 
conqueror. That was preposterous, so I refused 
to play again ; and when mamma came in she 
said I was asleep. I was not asleep at all : I 
had only sh’ut my eyes for a moment. She al- 
ways jumps to conclusions. 

When Ernest is away we write to each other 


13 


i 9 4 |3aor HDcar Mamma.” 


every day. I forget to write sometimes, and 
when this occurs I send him a telegram. It 
costs more, but then it saves me a great deal of 
trouble. I have no imagination, and I find let- 
ter-writing a tax on the intellect. 

Poor Ernest ! he has missed his Smalls again ; 
so unfortunate ! I believe the examiners are 
prejudiced against men who wear spectacles ; so 
Ernest tells me, and of course I believe him. 
Although Ernest has no faculty for spelling, and 
hard work makes him feel ill, yet, with so much 
practice, surely he ought to get through. 

Pussy Yorke and I have quarrelled. We 
just speak to one another when we meet, but no 
more. She was rude to Ernest. He did not 
notice it ; but I did, and it offended me. She is 
going to marry Bobby Brown almost immediate- 
ly, and because Bobby is clever, and handsome, 
and rich, she thinks she may give herself airs. 
I wonder why she is so pleased at the thought 
of being married. When Ernest mentions such a 
thing, I shudder ; for, as mamma says, it is a 
leap in the dark. Of course Ernest is quite 
sweet — as sweet as possible ; but I do not care 
for “draughts and sometimes I think old 


“JJoor EDcnr Jttamntn.” 


i9S 


maids look happy. Flo’s husband has made a 
heap of money in Cornish mines ; so they have 
taken a house at Brighton for six weeks. I 
wrote this letter to Flo last week : — 

“Darling Flo: Do ask me to come and 
stay with you im?nediately ; I don’t feel very 
well, and I think a sea-blow would do me good. 
I have not told mamma I am writing this, so 
please ask me as though it were your own 
idea. Your own 

“ Poppy.” 

I have just received the answer. I am de- 
lighted. 

“ Darling Poppy : Can you come and stay 
with me for a little while ? Tom runs up to 
London every day on business, so I am rather 
lonely, and should love to have you. We have 
a good many friends here. Lots going on. 
Fond love to mamma. Your own 

“ Flo.” 

When I took my invitation down-stairs and 
showed it to mamma, she said at once : 


196 “Poor EDear Jttamma.” 


“ But Ernest comes down to Miss Matthews 
for the long vacation next week, Poppy.” 

I blushed up to my eyes, and then said 
apologetically “ But it is such a long vacation, 
mammy dear ! ” 

Mamma looked at me for a long moment. 

44 Ernest will be disappointed, Poppy.” 

44 1 don’t think he will mind very much,” I 
said positively. 44 One can not keep it up for 
years.” 

44 Keep it up ? ” repeated mamma in ques~ 
tioning astonishment ; 44 keep what up ? ” 

44 Such devotion,” I explained, unabashed. 
44 A long engagement and a long vacation are 
two good things overdone.” 

44 Poppy, you are talking recklessly.” 

44 1 am reckless. Why will you remind me 
I am engaged ? You are always talking of Ern- 
est. You never allow me to forget him for a 
day. You were the very person who first 
pointed out the disadvantage of my situation, 
and now you are for ever forcing my situation 
down my throat. May I not go to Brighton and 
enjoy myself — just for a month ? When — when 
— when I am married I shall never enjoy my- 


“Poor Dear ittamttta.” 


197 


self again. Don’t look so shocked. I don’t be- 
lieve you are shocked. I don’t believe you are 
surprised. I believe you knew it from the first. 
How am I to marry somebody whom you de- 
spise ? ” 

Mamma walked over to the window, and 
stood there staring out into the garden. Mepho 
was upon the lawn burying a marrow-bone in 
the carnation bed, but she did not see him. 

“ My dear Poppy ! but you are — surely you 
are — dear me, how you puzzle me ! ” 

“ Ernest does not care for me, mamma ; he 
really does not. We quarrel dreadfully, and 
now he does not even take the trouble to make 
it up. Let me go to Brighton. It will be a 
change — a pleasant change — for both of us. 
Perhaps, if you would be so very kind you could 
play draughts with him a little sometimes.” 

“ Poppy,” said mamma sternly, “ this will 
not do ; you are treating a serious subject light- 
ly. I can not allow you to talk in this extraor- 
dinary way without demanding an explanation 
of your meaning.” 

“ I don’t know what I mean, mamma; but I 
wish I was dead.” 


i9 8 “Paor Dear iHatnma/” 


“My dear Poppy, that is your favorite ex- 
pression when anything goes in the least con- 
trary to your wishes. You are so dreadfully im- 
pulsive.” 

“ You are cruel, mamma. You have no pity 
for me, and, had it not been for you, I should 
never have done it. And now, when I want to 
go to Brighton, you tell me to stay at home for 
three long, long months with Ernest. It is 
dreadful to be engaged — dreadful. I could 
bear it better if — if — if he was in India.” 

Then I burst into tears, and mamma kissed 
me. She was quite kind, and she did not ask 
me any more questions, but she wrote a letter to 
Ernest. I did not know that she had done so 
until she brought me the answer, which Ernest 
had written her, to read : 

“ My Dear Mrs. Parrot : Your letter 
was a surprise to me. I knew Poppy had been 
quiet and morose last time I saw her, but she 
said nothing more unkind than she had done 
once or twice previously. Our engagement was 
rot, of course ; but at first she liked it. Aunt 
Tottie threw us together. However, ‘alls well 


“JJoor tUcar iHamitta.” 


199 


that ends well ’ ; so please give her my kind 
love, and say I shall go to Bath this vac., and I 
hope she will find some poor fellow with a per- 
fect temper next time — for she’ll want it. 

“ Yours sincerely, 

“Ernest Wilson." 

For the composition of a goose, that was a 
nasty letter, and, when I had read it, I threw 
my arms round mamma’s neck. I was so grate- 
ful to her for what she had done. 

I sent Ernest back his ring. Luckily I found 
it in my writing-table drawer under some old 
papers. It was a carbuncle ring. I had never 
worn it, because it burst my gloves and bruised 
my fingers. His letters I tore up and put into 
the paper-sack; and we made five shillings of 
them for the Orphanage at Kilburn. 

Miss Matthews was very angry with us all. 
She withdrew her subscriptions from the village 
charities, and gave up coming to church for 
three months. However, “ you can not keep up 
a grudge against a vacuum " ; so in time she at- 
tended the services once more, though she never 
renewed her subscriptions. 


200 


“Poor Pear IHantma.” 


Pussy and I have made it up. She came to 
see me, and told me all about her annoyances. 
Bobby will not listen to her account of Mrs. 
Yorke's peculiarities; so she requires a confi- 
dante. Men do not understand things, nor in- 
terest themselves particularly in clothes. The 
trousseau is for Pussy ; why should Mrs. Yorke 
have the choosing of it ? Her antiquated mind 
can not be expected to be alive to the latest 
fashion. 

I did not mention any of my own affairs to 
Pussy ; she was so engrossed in her gowns and 
squabbles that she listened to nothing I intro- 
duced upon other subjects. 

When I met Mrs. Yorke, she was very, very 
kind and sympathetic. I daresay Pussy is tire- 
some sometimes. I have known her quite odi- 
ous. Perhaps Mrs. Yorke (should she ever take 
to confiding her secrets to me) could find some 
extenuating circumstances to plead on her side. 
I fancy my mind enlarges as I grow older. 

Neither papa nor mamma ever talks to me 
on the subject of Ernest. For this forbearance 
on their part I am grateful. I hope I may never 
see him again as long as I live, for I had grown 


“pKrr EDear ilTatmtta.” 


201 


so tired of him — of his face ; of his voice ; of 
his company ; of his name. I did not know one 
could grow so tired of any young man. 

Mr. Philip Manners has been staying at the 
Hall. I wonder if he plays “ draughts ” ? I 
wonder if I should get tired of him if I saw too 
much of him ? It is difficult to answer this last 
question, for, so far, I have never seen half 
enough of him. He is going away to-morrow, 
but he is coming again for Pussy’s wedding, at 
which I am to act as bridesmaid. The dresses 
are white and yellow, with daffodil bouquets. I 
wish Pussy could have thought of something 
new. 

I have been Mrs. Philip Manners for two 
years, and I have changed my mind on a variety 
of topics. I am happy— certainly happy — but I 
look back at my girlhood with regret. I won’t 
tell you why ; that is my secret. I still have my 
little secrets ; and now the only ear to which I 
whisper them is the ear of my baby daughter, 
Dora. She is asleep in the cradle at my feet, 
and I feel relieved to think she was too young 
to hear the little difference of opinion Philip and 


202 


“Poor lUear iHomma.” 


I have just had about our trip to the seaside. 
Philip and I love one another, but we are not 
perfect. What will Dora think of us some day ? 
I wish — I wish — that I could tell mamma what 
I think of her, what I know of her from the 
height of fuller knowledge and wider experience 
to which I have attained ; but she died more 
than a year ago, and so it is too late. 



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them, and to share the merits of all. It is not a guide-book, and yet its 
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give it a real value as a guide to the tourist.” — Rev. Ithamar W. Beard, 
in White Mountain Echo. 

“ Mr. Ward’s aim has been something apart from the aims of those 
who have gone before him. He has sought to write neither a guide-book 
nor an itinerary. He aimed not at mere description, nor did he permit 
his imagination alone to guide his pen. His was rather a sympathetic 
and intelligent attempt to interpret for the contemplative mind the great 
lessons which these impressive elevations are capable of imparting to 
men. . . . Mr. Ward’s sympathy with his subject is keen and alive. 
He writes as one who loves Nature profoundly. The faith and devotion 
of such students we are assured that she never betrays. His in truth 
is a volume to carry along with one to the mountains and to open and 
read anywhere. It is also a volume to read at home. Even those who 
have not in years looked upon those glorious pageants of mountain-tops 
and moving clouds will find it of great interest and of much practical serv- 
ice in recalling their early impressions and suggesting new ones.” — New 
York Times. 

“ The volume, although it covers familiar ground, is unique in its 
plan apd treatment, and opens up a new and wonderful source of enjoy- 
ment to the lover of natural scenery. It humanizes Nature, or, rather, 
it brings the single individual soul into communion with that vast and 
universal soul which pervades the material universe.”— Boston Transcript. 

“ Description of the perpema'ly changing mountain view (assisted by 
ten good photogravures), and interpretation of it after the manner of the 
poet and the believer in the Divine Immanence, are the two offices which 
Mr. Ward has so successfully discharged that his volume will become a 
classic on the White Mountains.” — Literary World. 

“ It furnishes a great deal of practical information which will be of 
inestimable service.” — Boston Gazette. 

“ The book is replete with noble thoughts expressed in language of 
exquisite beauty.” — New York Observer. 

“ The author is thoroughly in love with his subject and not less 
thoroughly acquainted with it.” — New York Tribune. 


New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street. 


D. APPLETON & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS. 


Recent Issues in Aprletons’ Town and Country Library. 

'J'HE NUGENTS OF CARRICONNA. An Fish 
J- Story. By Tighe Hopkins. i2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; 
cloth, 75 cents. 

44 An extremely racy Irish story, quite separated from everything that 
savors of the present agitation in Ireland, and one of the best things of the 
kind for several years.” — Springfield Republican. 



SENSITIVE RIANT. A novel by E. & D. Ge- 
rard, joint authors of “ Reata,” “ The Waters of Hercu- 
les,” etc. i2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, 75 cents. 


“ An agreeable and amusing love-story, the scene of which is part of the 
time in a coal-mining district in Scotland, and afterward in Venice, and a 
prominent character in which is a shrinking girl whose sensitiveness is 
suggestive of the little mimosa flower which gives title to the book.” — 
Cincinnati Times-Star. 



ONA LUZ. By Don Juan Valera. Translated by 

Mrs. Mary J. Serrano. i2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, 
$1.00. 


“ A triumph of skillful execution as well as of profound conception of 
modern Spanish character and social life. It is full of the best traditions of 
Spanish thought, both sacred and secular, of Spanish proverbial wisdom, 
and of the humor of Cervantes and other lights of the past in the literature 
of Spain.” — Brooklyn Eagle. 



EPITA XIMENEZ. By Don Juan Valera. Trans- 
lated by Mrs. Mary J. Serrano. i2mo. Paper, 50 cents; 
cloth, $1.00. 


“ A very striking and powerful novel.” — Boston Transcript. 

“ ‘ One of the jewels of literary Spain ' is what a Spanish critic has pro- 
nounced the most popular book of recent years in that language, Don Juan 
Valera’s novel 4 Pepita Ximenez.' ” — The Nation. 


'J'HE PRIMES AND THEIR NEIGHBORS. Ten 

Tales ofi Middle Georgia. By Richard Malcolm John- 
ston, author of “Widow Guthrie.” i2mo. Paper, 50 
cents; cloth, $1.25. 

“ The best of Southern tales.” — Chicago Herald. 

“ The thorough excellence of Col. Johnston’s work is well known. He 
was among the first of the successful short-story writers of this country. 
The steady increase in his fame is the best indication of the solid apprecia- 
tion of the reading public. This public will give the new volume the same 
reception that made 4 Widow Guthrie ' one of the most successful of recent 
novels.” — Baltimore A merican. 


New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 1 , 3, & 5 Bond Street. 


D. APPLETON & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS. 


Recent Issues in Appletons’ Town and Country Library. 

'T'HE IRON GAME. By Henry F. Keenan, author 
of “Trajan,” “The Aliens,” etc. i2mo. Paper, 50 
cents ; cloth, $1.00. 

“ An entertaining romance which covers the time from just before the 
war until soon after the peace. Six young people carry on their love-making 
under countless difficulties, owing to two of them being on the wrong side 
of the unpleasantness. Of course, there are all sorts of adventures, plots 
misunderstandings, and wonderful escapes. . . . The book is written in 
excellent taste .” — Pittsburgh Bulletin. 

I OKIES OF OLD NE IV SPAIN. By Thomas A. 
Janvier. i2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 

“The author does for the Mexicans much what Longfellow has done 
for the Acadians .” — New York Commercial Advertiser. 

“ Another lot of those talcs of Mexico, which their author knows how 
to write with such skill and charm. Nine of the stories are delightful, and 
nine is the number of stories in the book .” — New York Bun. 



“ A story of France just. before, during, and after the Reign of Terror. 
There are not many novels in our language which portray rural conditions 
in France in this troubled period, and this has a unique interest for that 
reason .” — Chicago Times. 

TN THE HEART OF THE STORM. By Maxwell 
Grey, author of “ The Silence of Dean Maitland.” 
i2mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents. 

“The plot is compact, deftly constructed, free from extravangances and 
violent improbabilities, with a well-managed element of suspense running 
nearly to the end, and strongly illustrative throughout of English life and 
character. The book is likely to add materially to the author’s well-earned 
repute .” — Chicago Times. 

S ~* 0 N SEQUENCES By Egerton Castle. i2mo. 
^ Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 

“ It is a real pleasure to welcome a new novelist who shows both promise 
and performance. . . . The work is distinguished by verve, by close and 
wide observation of the ways and cities of many men, by touches of a re- 
flection which is neither shallow nor charged with the trappings and suits 
of weightiness ; and in many ways, not least in the striking end, it is de- 
cidedly original .” — Saturday Review. 


New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street. 


D. APPLETON & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS. 



APPLETONS’ SUMMER SERIES. 

OURM ALIN'S TIME CHEQUES. By F. Anstey, 
author of “Vice Versa,” “ The Giant’s Robe,” etc. 


“ Its author has struck another rich vein of whimsicality and humor.” 
— San Francisco A rgonaut. 

“ His special gift is in making the impossible appear probable ” — St. 
Louis Republic. 

“A curious conceit and very entertaining story.” — Boston Advertiser. 
“ Each cheque is good for several laughs.” — New York Herald. 

“ Certainly one of the most diverting books of the season.” — Brooklyn 
Times. 

“ Sets a handsome example for the * Summer Series,’ with its neat and 
portable style of half cloth binding and good paper and typography.” — 
Brooklyn Eagle. 


F 


ROM SHADOW TO SUNLIGHT. By the Mar- 
quis of Lorne. 


“ In these days of princely criticism — that is to say. criticism of princes 
— it is refreshing to meet a really good bit of aristocratic literary work, al- 
beit the au'.hor is only a prince-in-law. . . . The theme chosen by the 
Marquis makes his story attractive to Americans.” — Chicago Tribune. 

“ A charming book.” — Cincinnati Enquirer. 



DOTTING AN ABANDONED FARM. By Kate 
Sanborn. 


“ It may be mythical, but it reads like a true narrative taken from a 
strong memory that has been re-enforced by a diary and corrected by the 
parish register. It is not only as natural as life, but, as Josh Billings used 
to say, ‘even more so.’ ” — New York Journal of Commerce. 

“ Miss Sanborn is a bright and sagacious writer; she does not spare her 
cwn fads and foibles in order to pose as a model to circumstances. Every 
one who has had, or still has, hankerings after the agricultural career, will 
ippreciate her delightful frankness.” — Boston Beacon. 

‘‘A sunny, pungent, humorous sketch. . . . A bright, amusing book, 
which is thoughtful as well as amusing, and may stimulate, somewhere, 
thinking that shall.bear fruit in some really effective remedial action.” — ■ 
Chicago l imes. 't 2 0 



N THE LAKE OF LUCERNE , AND OTHER 
STORIES. By Beatrice Whitby. 


Each, i6mo, half cloth, with specially designed cover, fifty cents. 


New York: D. APPLETON & CO., i, 3, & 5 Bond Street. 































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